The Frozen North I: At the Gates
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: The first part of a 3-part epic in my Warcraft cycle, set during the events of Wrath of the Lich King. From the coast of the west in Borean Tundra and the forests of the Howling Fjord, to the fateful confrontation at Angrathar the Wrathgate, follow the heroes of Azeroth as they face the Undead Scourge. Rated M for violence and strong language. Mostly Horde-centric, some Alliance.
1. Arrival

**(AN: Okay, we've had two origin stories, one humorous one, and one "interquel", now let's begin yet another epic set in my Warcraft cycle. This time it will be about my favorite expansion, and the one where I got my start in World of Warcraft: the _Wrath of the Lich King_.)**

 **(Furthermore, this will be different as it will also feature a shift of perspective towards more Horde-centric characters. I had initially wanted to tell a Horde-centric story that started back in Warcraft III, but decided that, since Beacon of Light begins in _Mists of Pandaria_ , the expansion where I made my healer alt - Melissa "Tharbinsgirl" Redmane - it would make sense to make this story set during Wrath. However, I will shift back and forth between Horde and Alliance perspectives throughout the story.)**

 **(As usual, I don't own WoW, and only the OC characters featured here are my creations.)**

* * *

 **Arrival**

Early morning, somewhere over the Great Sea. Three large zeppelins were on their way through the skies, heading north. Up here, the sound of their great propellers swatting the air was the only thing heard for miles, broken periodically by shrill calls from the Goblin crews of each airship. Crimson banners flapped defiantly in the cold, northern wind, bearing the emblem of the Horde. The affront upon Orgrimmar would not be tolerated and now the armies of the Horde were turned north to face the undead Scourge.

Within the zeppelins huddled the soldiers of the Horde. Savage green-skinned Orcs, slender blue-skinned Trolls, massive bovine Tauren, the fair and elegant Blood Elves, the latest addition to the Horde, and the Forsaken, little different than the undead Scourge they were going to fight. These had answered the call of Warchief Thrall to set sail to Grommash Hold on the western shore of Northrend. Here they would begin their campaign of retribution against the undead Scourge, who held sway over the Roof of the World.

Among the Orcs were three stalwart warriors, the finest soldiers of the Horde. The tallest of them was a lean hunter, clad in thick animal pelts. Kron'gar had seen many winters, and his beard, braided into one long, single plait that fell down to his belt, was streaked with many gray strands. Of the three of them, he had a vague recollection of the Orcish race as they once had been: the proud and free clans of Draenor, independent of each other, but bound by their traditions of strength and honor. The largest of them was Gol'og, another elderly warrior hailing from Draenor. He was their captain, and held the respect and admiration of all those who knew him: his reputation as a warrior was renown and upon his neck was a string of the tusks of those Orcs who had challenged him in battle and failed. The third was a young Orc with a thick black beard. He had been born here in Azeroth, some time before the outbreak of the Second War, and knew little of the traditions of old. While Kron'gar wielded a spear and Gol'og the great-axe, Gar'mosh bore a short axe that could be wielded with one hand, and a shield to match.

"How much longer till we land?" Gar'mosh asked.

"Very soon," Gol'og answered: his voice was deep and measured, belying the power within the old Orc's body.

"Good!" Gar'mosh grunted. "My axe begs to crush the skulls of undead!"

"You should tell your axe not to beg," Kron'gar interjected. "Begging is for humans."

"And filthy Tauren shame'n!" an undead spoke up.

"You talk much, Talen!" Gol'og grumbled at the undead. "Grown tired of having Malkorok's dick in your mouth?" Gol'og chuckled, and Talen's eyes narrowed: his lower jaw had long since fallen off, and the iron one that had been nailed into his skull was permanently fixed into a mocking grin.

As for Malkorok, he had defected from Rend Blackhand's Blackrock Orcs when the Horde besieged Blackrock Spire several years ago. Upon joining the Horde, he became an outspoken opponent of the leadership of Thrall and his revitalization of the Orcish traditions. Recently, he had volunteered to join the ranks of the Warsong Offensive, the fighting force under the leadership of Overlord Garrosh Hellscream, the lord of Warsong Hold and son of the Warsong Clan's chieftain Grom Hellscream.

Had anyone else responded to Talen's mocking addendum, he would have returned the insult in kind: undead had no honor whatsoever, and their allegiance to the Horde was tenuous at best, made from self-interest. As it was Gol'og, the undead shadow priest cowed in silence. He turned to the object of his mockery and glared at him with his soulless yellow eyes and mocking grin. Gar Earthwalker, a Tauren shaman, was seated in the bowels of the zeppelin, on the starboard side, looking the window. He was Talen's favorite target of mockery: Gar was larger than him, but he was also a pacifist and a loner as well. With no one to defend him, and a penchant for avoiding violence, Gar made an easy target for the faithless Talen, who knew enough about the Tauren to tickle his morbid mind.

The sound of a loud goblin fog-horn was heard, and a distant war-horn roared in reply. A loud crackling sound was heard and a screeching goblin voice was heard in the hull.

"This is your captain speaking!" the goblin said. "We're approaching Warsong Hold. All soldiers prepare for departure."

More than a few of those within the hull roared with delight. Gol'og lifted up his axe and ran his thumb across the blade: five notches within the blade, each one for a particularly powerful enemy he had personally fought in his long life. The first from an ogre he had killed in single combat as a young-blood: the ogre had been twice his size, more than four times his strength, and he had been lain in his mother's tent for seven nights afterward, as the battle had almost killed him. The second notch was from a knight he had fought in a skirmish in the Hillsbrad Foothills during the Second War: he had fought well and valiantly, for a human, and Gol'og sung his praises every time he visited the alehouse (though often changing him to a fierce Wolfrider to appease his Orcish audience). The third was from Hakkar the Blood-god, a fierce being resurrected by the Gurubashi trolls whose Blood Plague had ravaged both the Horde and the Alliance for many months. The fourth he received from a Draenei warrior he had faced in battle several months ago in Alterac: the only person who had survived an encounter with him. The fifth and last notch was from the Betrayer Illidan Stormrage, when he struck the Warglaive of Azzinoth in the battle of the Black Temple.

"Foerend," he said, looking at his axe. "May you taste the blood of the Lich King."

Kron'gar looked out the port-side window and breathed the frigid northern air. There were many beasts in Azeroth that he hadn't hunted yet, whose meat and hide would provide food and clothing for many in Orgrimmar. Furthermore, he had heard tales of direwolves in Northrend, similar to the ones back home on Draenor. Though he too had answered the call of the Horde to fight the Scourge, he wanted to roam this land and test his might against the beasts of Northrend and perhaps bring home a live direwolf. Gar'mosh, however, was eager to fight anything in his path: whether it was the Scourge or the Alliance, the blood-fury was hot in his veins. Battle was all he knew and he threw himself into it with reckless abandon.

The zeppelin came to a halt. On the deck, the goblins rushed to tie off the first zeppelin to the moorings at the Warsong Hold. A ramp was extended so the soldiers could disembark. Then the zeppelin's captain shouted into the amplifier that the zeppelin had landed.

"Move out, sons of the Horde!" Gol'og shouted. "Lok'tar!"

There was a mad rush to disembark from the zeppelin's main hold. Kron'gar, Gol'og and Gar'mosh were among the first to disembark, eager to join the battle they had waited all day and all night to be part of. In the press, the large Gar made his way with the other Tauren: he wasn't very fast and so often fell behind, but he was determined to keep up and not be late. He had seen Garrosh in Nagrand, when the Warchief first met him, and knew how he could be toward those who angered him. But as he was trying to keep up, Talen, who had lingered behind, stole a wooden totem from off his back. He looked around to see who had taken it, but then saw Talen standing next to the window, holding the stolen totem.

"Give it back!" Gar said.

"Why not ask the wind to give it back to you, sham!" Talen grinned, then threw the wooden thing out of the window. Gar tried to grab it, but he was too slow to reach it. Talen cackled, then hurried on out of the zeppelin hold. Gar grumbled low, but said nothing: he would already be late as it is and had to fall back into rank. If he could, he would retrieve his tribal symbol and the conduit for his communion with the spirits after he had joined the Warsong Offensive.

* * *

From the zeppelin, the group made their way immediately down a long flight of stairs to the command center in the very heart of the Warsong Hold. One by one they lined up, weapons in their hands, ready for inspection by the Overlord. Gar'mosh, Gol'og and Kron'gar arrived first, saluted, and stood at attention, while Talen quietly slunk into rank with the other Forsaken. All eyes turned as thick, heavy footfalls echoed across the iron floor. A large brown-skinned Orc approached the company: his body was thick and muscled beneath heavy armor and wolf-skin clothing, with a thick neck leading up to a small bald head, whose lower jaw was covered in a black tattoo, as the chieftains of the Warsong Clan often were. He halted before the company and looked them down one by one, then scoffed.

"IS THIS THE BEST OF THE HORDE?!" the Orc roared. "YOU WEAKLINGS ARE THE BEST THAT COWARD THRALL SENT ME?! DOES HE _WANT_ US TO LOSE THIS WAR?!"

"I fought with Gol'og in Silithus," an old Orc with green-skin, spiked iron armor and a wicked-looking axe said, stepping up to the right of the brown-skinned Orc. "There is no finer warrior in the Horde than he."

"SHUT UP, OLD MAN!" the brown Orc roared at the older one. " _I_ LEAD THE OFFENSIVE, SAURFANG, NOT YOU! YOU WOULD DO WELL TO REMEMBER THAT!" The brown Orc then stepped towards the line, starting with the Orcs. He frowned, but made no comments about them. When he came to the Trolls, he grabbed the spear of one Troll and examined it briefly.

"YOU BRING A TWIG TO WAR?!" he roared. With that, he broke the spear over his knees. "GO BACK TO YOUR MUD-HUTS, PUNY TROLL! YOUR KIND DON'T BELONG HERE! THAT COWARD THRALL SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOUR KIND TO BE SLAUGHTERED BY YOUR SEA-WITCH!"

"How dare you insult the Warchief!" a deep, baritone voice spoke. There was a collective gasp at this brazen affront to the authority of the Overlord. The brown Orc turned towards the offending one: it was Gar, who had breathlessly joined the tail end of the company. With slow, ominous footsteps, Hellscream approached the Tauren.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME, COW?" he roared.

"Thrall is our Warchief," Gar said. "He deserves our respect."

Without a second word, Garrosh punched Gar in the stomach, then delivered another blow to his back, sending the Tauren stumbling onto the ground. He delivered a kick to his face, then another to his stomach, kicking him over and over in his wrath.

" _I_ DESERVE YOUR RESPECT!" Garrosh roared. "THAT COWARDLY GREEN-SKINNED B*TCH CAN'T HELP YOU NOW, PUNY TAUREN! YOU WILL RESPECT _MY_ AUTHORITY, OR I WILL HANG YOUR HEAD OVER THE HOLD AND CLEAN MY TEETH WITH YOUR HORNS!"

Talen laughed at seeing the object of his mockery publicly humiliated. But as soon as Garrosh turned his yellow eyes at the Forsaken, he fell silent and cowered back in line.

"FILTHY UNDEAD!" he roared. "WATCH YOUR BACK, OR I MIGHT JUST FORGET THAT YOU'RE NOT ONE OF THE SCOURGE! IS THAT CLEAR, SCUM?!"

"Yes, oh great Overlord Hellscream!" Talen exclaimed. "Your wish is my command, oh great one! I've heard the tales of your greatness and your ferocity, but they pale in comparison to the truth of your awe-inspiring greatness..."

"SHUT UP!" Garrosh retorted, and Talen was silent. He then stepped back and addressed them all.

"I CARE NOTHING FOR YOUR PREVIOUS ACCOMPLISHMENTS!" said Garrosh. "I DEMAND YOUR RESPECT AND OBEDIENCE TO ME AND ME ALONE! YOU WILL KILL WHEN I TELL YOU TO KILL, YOU WILL DIE WHEN I TELL YOU TO DIE, AND YOU WILL BRING ME HONOR WITH YOUR DEATHS! IS THAT CLEAR?!"

"Yes, sir!" the soldiers shouted as one.

"WE ARE HERE TO KILL THE UNDEAD!" Garrosh continued. "BUT THE ALLIANCE IS HERE AS WELL: THEY DESERVE TO DIE AS WELL! NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Some of them saluted and shouted "Lok'tar!", while others waited as their captains told them which way to go for their barracks. Gar was the last one up, as he was still sore from being assaulted. But as he was getting up, a large weight fell upon his back and he fell to the ground again.

"Just where you belong, stupid sham!" Talen mocked. "On the floor, beneath the feet of your betters."

"Get off me!" grumbled Gar.

"'Get off me!'" mocked Talen. "Or what? Are you gonna cry to your precious Thrall? Will the elements hear your tears, sham?"

"Don't call me sham!" Gar grumbled.

"'Don't call me sham!'" Talen mocked. "You're a fucking idiot for being offended over a joke, you know that?"

"Eight years of this shit!" Gar said. "Can't you knock it off?"

"'Can't you knock it off?'" Talen retorted. "You're such a fucking crybaby. Your kind don't belong in the Horde, stupid sham. Why not go over and join the Alliance, if they'll have you? They might roast you and serve you as steak instead, being a big dumb cow!"

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Garrosh roared. Talen leaped off Gar's body and shook his head furiously. Gar pushed himself up to his feet.

"He pinned me to the floor," the Tauren said.

"Oh, really, overlord?" Talen asked. "How could I, a thin, spindly Forsaken, pin that giant cow to the floor? He's just a big b*tch who can't defend himself."

Garrosh stepped on Gar's face. "WHY DID YOU COME HERE, YOU USELESS PIECE OF COW-SHIT?! GO BACK TO YOUR TENTS! THERE'S NO PLACE FOR WEAKNESS IN _MY_ HORDE!" He then kicked him in the stomach again. "YOU HAVE CLEANING DUTY IN THE STABLES! NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" Garrosh walked away without looking back, while Talen loomed in Gar's face.

"Gar the shit-shoveling sham!" he mocked. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Oh, don't look so sad. I'm sure your kind must be well-acquainted to shit, being cows and all." He laughed and went on his way.

Gar had faced this kind of treatment from the members of the Horde for eight years. First it was the Orcs of Thrall's Horde, many of whom, like Gar'mosh, were born on Azeroth during the time of the old Horde and knew only violence and bloodshed as their way of life. To them, the 'old ways' that Thrall was bringing back in his policies were a source of weakness that dishonored what the Horde was: some even viewed Thrall as being "too human" because of his focus on honor. Then, after the Horde expanded with the addition of the Forsaken and the Blood Elves, the tormenting continued. Gar was large and slow, and therefore an easy target of ridicule, especially among the Forsaken and Blood Elves: the Blood Elves were haughty, aloof, and capricious by nature, and many of the Forsaken had once been humans.

Often times he wondered if the Horde as it was now had changed from the Horde as Cairne Bloodhoof had encountered them eight years ago: the one that fought with valor as well as savagery.

* * *

The Orcish company was a loud and raucous bunch. Already Gar'mosh was announcing to all those around that he would give money to whoever beat him in an arm wrestle. Kron'gar laughed as he saw several challengers roar their taking of the bet.

"My money's on Trelka," Kron'gar said to Gol'og, pointing to a mohawk-wearing woman with a Gnome's leg-bone for an earring.

"He's young and full of the bloodlust," Gol'og said. "Make sure he doesn't get himself into trouble. She's beaten Dwarves tougher than him."

"Come now, Gol," Kron'gar returned. "How many times have you fought with the best of them from both continents, and back home at World's End?"

"That's the point," Gol'og stated.

"Huh?"

"He reminds me of myself when I was his age," Gol'og clarified. "When the Horde was first formed. Spirits guide him, and keep him from following my path."

"Your path was that of glory and battle," Kron'gar returned. "Are you afraid that he'll outmatch your legend?"

Gol'og laughed. "He'd have to live as many years as I have and fought for most of them to come close to my legend!" He sighed. "No, but there is more..." At that point, the old Orc, whom Garrosh had called Saurfang, entered the Orcish barracks. All those who saw him stood at attention immediately.

"At ease, brothers," he said. "I hope you weren't put off by Hellscream's introduction. He is young and hungry for battle. But we have a job to do here, and you answered the call. We have undead in the east, Alliance and kvaldir in the south, and blue dragons in the west. Needless to say, this will be an uphill battle all the way. Our scouts report that the undead are massing another attack on this fortress across the Plains of Nasam: this company has five minutes to get geared and ready for battle on the plains. Lok'tar ogar!"

"Lok'tar ogar!" they roared in reply. The mad rush to prepare for battle overwhelmed the company almost immediately. Kron'gar and Gol'og took up their weapons and made their way up from the barracks.

"So much for a breather before battle," Kron'gar said. Gol'og grunted his approval.

* * *

Their company's banner was located on the northern edge of the Plains of Nasam, just outside the quarry where the Warsong Hold had been built. Before them they could see the lines of the undead waiting for them: thousands of shambling monstrosities. The Orcish company, and many others, readied themselves for the inevitable battle to come: grunts, like Gar'mosh, flexed their fingers upon the shafts of their axes. Trolls with spears behind them invoked the Loa spirits, or snacked on hallucinogenic mushrooms, working themselves up for a berserker fury. Wolfriders with two-handed great-swords petted the thick hides of their wolf mounts. Orcish shamans prayed to the spirits of the wind to grant them strength; witch-doctors of the Darkspear Tribe muttered ancient chants to the Loa, channeling the power of the spirits; Tauren spirit-walkers cast sacred ashes upon the cold wind, invoking the protection of the Earth-mother. Orcish drummers atop their massive kodos struck the skins, pounding out the beat of the march of war. Mad trolls with fiery concoctions whispered to the blind bat-mounts they had brought with them from the Undercity, while the noble Wyvern riders, including Kron'gar, secured their ammunition of spears and lances upon the harnesses of their flying beasts. Goblin-made demolishers loaded incendiary rounds ready for firing. Mighty Tauren warriors asked the guarding of their ancestors, then heaved their war totems over their shoulders; massive, dense weapons the size of tree trunks.

There were few Forsaken warriors among them, for their main army was attacking from the east, in the Howling Fjord. Among the Blood Elves who were with them, footmen in gold-and-crimson armor readied themselves to repay the Undead Scourge for the destruction of Quel'thalas. Keen-eyed Elven archers fitted arrows into the strings of their bows, standing ready to draw and fire within an instant. Blood Elven priests and sorceresses gripped the fel-crystals they used to compose their thirst for magic, readying themselves for battle. Alongside the Wyvern and bat-riders, Blood Elves with lances rode colorful dragonhawks: all three kinds would be needed for the battle ahead, as the undead had gargoyles and flying Nerubians in their ranks, as well as reanimated frost wyrms.

"Soldiers of the Horde!" Gol'og roared. "Some of you still remember fighting these undead on the slopes of Mount Hyjal eight years ago. Today we face them yet again. Remember the ones who fell to these monsters: your brothers, your sons, your daughters, your sisters. Honor demands their deaths be avenged!"

The warriors of the Horde roared triumphantly in agreement with the captain's words.

"Death is not an option for you, my brothers," Gol'og said. "For if you die, they will bring you back as one of their own and, by the spirits, I will cut you down myself! There is no other outcome for this battle, but victory for us! Lok'tar!"

" _ **LOK'TAR!**_ " shouted the warriors of the Horde.

With that, the forces of the Horde charged out and fell upon the undead. Gar'mosh was among the first into the fray, shield in one hand and axe in the other. His shield coupled with his momentum and size bore down on the first ghoul he overtook: the shambling creature was trampled by the iron-shod Orc. The shield went up to turn aside the blow of a skeletal warrior's sword, then the axe came down and hacked off the sword-bearing arm. A Nerubian crypt fiend fired a sticky web at Gar'mosh, who, in the fullness of his battle fury, thrashed at it with his axe, tearing it apart. The large thing charged at him on six of its eight legs, black eyes staring hungrily at him. Then, from above, a battle-cry was heard and Kron'gar heaved a spear from the back of his Wyvern: it lanced the crypt fiend through the narrow thorax, pinning it to the ground. Gar'mosh drove his axe-head into the bug's head, right between the cluster of its many eyes.

Gol'og was a one-man army at the front of his company. With one great swipe, he tore off the legs of a crypt fiend, sending it falling helplessly to the ground. A ghoul came up from the right, and Gol'og thrust the spiked pommel of Foerend into the ghoul's head, piercing through the skull and slicing into what was left of its brain. From amid the ranks of the undead appeared a massive crypt lord, the beetles who were once the lords of the Nerubians; powerful flesh-eaters whose carapace was as hard as any armor. Gol'og struck his chest and roared defiantly at the crypt lord, then charged head-long at the creature, axe in hand.

Above the battle, Kron'gar heaved another lance at a crypt fiend he got into his sights. These were the main danger for their air-force, since their webs could bring down even a Wyvern. A bat-rider threw a potion full of some volatile liquid down on a host of ghouls, setting them on fire. They ran like mad, spreading chaos in the lines of the undead. Kron'gar scanned the battlefield, looking for another target. Experienced hunter that he was, he knew that those in the rear, dressed in robes rather than armor, were always the supporters of the company: taking them down would be essential to success.

The battle raged on, with both sides trading loses. More than six dozen undead fell, with three warriors of the Horde falling. Each of them came back as a mindless zombie, controlled by the cultists in black robes at the back of the undead Scourge: necromancers of the Cult of the Damned. Those who came back, no matter who they were, were put down without hesitation and without mercy. Gar'mosh was standing atop a hill of broken ghoul remains, shouting defiantly at the hordes of the undead. Suddenly an iron hook caught on his armor and he found himself pulled violently through the air and crashing at the feet of a titanic monstrosity of rotting flesh, haphazardly sewn together into a hulking abomination.

"Fresh meat!" roared the abomination.

Gar'mosh roared back at the creature, striking the chain upon which the hook stuck to his shoulder-pads was fastened. With his other hand he held up his shield, fending off the blows from one of the abomination's three arms: it bore a cudgel, some crude weapon scavenged and thrown into the mindless creature's hands when it was told to kill for the Lich King. The heavy, concussive blows shook Gar'mosh, for the abomination struck as hard as any ogre. He needed to be free of this chain. Again and again he struck at the chain, until at last the links shattered and Gar'mosh was free. He swung his axe at a series of stitches in the beast's massive belly, ripping them and sending a putrid mass of offal, green fluids, and intestines spewing onto the ground. Despite its wound, the abomination still swung at the Orc warrior, desperately trying to take him down with it. Another blow from the cudgel was turned by the shield and Gar'mosh severed the third arm that protruded from the left armpit.

The crypt lord swung its forward pincer at Gol'og, who fended off the blow with the shaft of Foerend: bound in thick kodo and clefthoof hides, it served as a light shield in times of need. But the crypt lord had two such pincers at the front of its body, and the other one slid underneath and behind the axe's shaft. Gol'og, mighty Orc he was, was outmatched for strength by the massive Nerubian, who wrenched Foerend from his hands and threw it to the ground. But Gol'og was not beaten yet: even without his great-axe, he was still a formidable warrior. Using the body of a fallen crypt fiend, he leaped on top of the crypt lord, onto its mighty carapace. The beetle's pincers couldn't reach him, nor could its massive horn, which thrust back in vain to pin the pestilent Orc that dared defy him. Gol'og dug his fingers deep between the edges of a piece of Nerubian chitin, then pulled with all of his might. There was a loud crack, and a sickening roar of pain from the giant beetle as a sizable chunk of chitin was torn off its body, exposing its soft insides. Gol'og drove the hardened chunk deep into the exposed flesh, then leaped off the crypt lord as it flailed and thrashed about. From the air came another lance from Kron'gar that struck the exposed portion. But this lance was poisoned with Wyvern venom, known to cause lethargy and sluggish movement in those it infected. The Nerubian beetle could not fight or move as swiftly as before. Gol'og saw his opportunity, and, picking up Foerend, he moved in for the kill. A ghoul that came up on the left was pushed aside by a quick shove from the shoulder: nothing would stop the old Orc. In mid sprint, Gol'og turned the great-axe around, using the pommel as a lance, and drove the spiked end through the small face of the crypt lord.

The battle was over in thirty minutes time: the Horde had won. Fifteen had fallen of their number, and all of the undead were wiped out. The bodies were placed into two piles for burning, with the warriors of the Horde being burned separately from the undead. The cold, northern winds were harsh and battled their attempts to light fires. Eventually, mages skilled in pyromancy cast spells to ignite the pyres. The three Orcs stood somber before the burning piles. They were all wearied and covered in the blood of their enemies, but Kron'gar and Gar'mosh were still in high spirits.

"There will be quite a song back at the hold," said Gar'mosh.

"They went to their ancestors with pride," Kron'gar added. "They will be honored as such."

"How many did you kill?" Gar'mosh asked.

"Enough," Kron'gar stated.

"Bah, you don't want to tell, do you?" asked Gar'mosh. "Afraid that us grunts outdid you wind-riders, eh?" Kron'gar said nothing. "Twenty. Even got two of those abominations. A good morning's workout for a soldier, eh? But there's plenty of undead here in Northrend, so I hear. Maybe if I'm injured, you'll be able to catch up with me." He laughed, and then turned and made his way back to the hold. Kron'gar chuckled, then turned to Gol'og, who had been silent throughout the ordeal.

"What is it?" he asked.

"This tundra," Gol'og said. "It reminds me of Draenor. Do you remember Frostfire Ridge, where the Frostwolf Clan used to hunt?"

"Yes," Kron'gar nodded. "The boar there were excellent game."

"Indeed," Gol'og grimly smiled.

"The cold wind gladdens my heart," Kron'gar said. "Were it not for the undead here, I could be at great ease here in Northrend." He turned back to Gol'og. "You seem troubled."

"These young-bloods," Gol'og grumbled. "They have no respect for tradition or honor. They are like Overlord Hellscream: hungry for battle and blind to all else."

"Is that not good?" Kron'gar asked.

"Without honor to guide us," Gol'og replied. "We are no different now than we were under Gul'dan." He sighed. "Sometimes I wonder how deep the corruption of Gul'dan and his warlocks runs within our race. More than our green skin, these young-bloods, born during the old Horde, are likely to drive us back into the savagery and bloodlust of that time."

"You're getting soft in your old age," Kron'gar stated.

"You're not much younger than I!" Gol'og returned. "But age has nothing to do with it."

"Those young-bloods would accuse you of acting 'human,'" Kron'gar said.

"And in that, they're wrong," Gol'og stated firmly. "We were not like the humans in the old ways, before Gul'dan and the warlocks. Respecting honor won't make us like the humans."

"Mmm," grumbled Kron'gar. "This talk bores me. I'm returning to the hold. Are you coming, or do you have more thinking to do?"

Gol'og chuckled. "I'm coming. We have to report our success."

The two old warriors left the Plains of Nasam and began the long hike back to Warsong Hold. It had been a good day for fighting. The Horde was victorious.

* * *

 **(AN: Well, this was an interesting chapter to say the least. I've got several heroes lined up for the Horde perspective, some of whom have yet to appear, and some of them have appeared already. As far as depicting the Horde goes, I've had to do some research, but I think that a lot of Orcs don't like Thrall as a leader. I know the fans don't [they don't call him "green Jesus" because they like him], but the lore says that the Orcs don't either. I've come to the conclusion that Gul'dan's affect on the Orcish race was much more profound than originally thought, and that many of the young Orcs grew up during the time of his Horde: therefore they only know the brutal, bloodthirsty, evil Horde, and view Thrall's vision for the Horde as "weakness." It was really telling when I read the manual for classic WoW and the Orcs were basically at their pre-Warcraft 3 version of being savage monsters.)**

 **(As you could have guessed, I'm not a fan of Garrosh: at all. My first introduction to him was the Ulduar trailer, where he was basically a big b*tch who doesn't listen, treats everyone around him like shit, and only thinks about himself. He never changed: ever. So if you're hoping for a "misunderstood hero" depiction of him, go find Bellular or Taliesin [-cough- Talen], because you won't get that here. Also I REALLY hate the stupid nickname that players give to shaman in WoW: it rhymes with "shame" and/or "sham", both of which are derogatories [you know, like "huntard" or "death-noob"], and players who call their shaman some form of that stupid nickname are as ignorant as the black people who call themselves the n-word like it's some kind of badge of pride.)**


	2. A Secret Mission

**(AN: I love the Alliance's introduction to Northrend in the Howling Fjord, where you sail through the fjord and see the massive ship strung up by vrykul harpoons. Unfortunately, that won't be described in this chapter, even though we're shifting to the eastern front. There are other things to show in this chapter, and different characters to re-introduce.)**

 **(In this chapter, I describe the tuskarr as "mursine." This is an invented word based on the Finnish word for walrus, which is "mursu." Speaking of the tuskarr and walruses, Tolkien attributed the name walrus to the Germanic language, from either the Dutch "walvis", or the Norse "hrossvalr" [read Vrykul]. I wish that I could invent such a word for moose, one that would be similar to bovine. Well, we have the bovine Tauren, the canine Worgen, and the ursine Pandaren, so the Highmountain Tauren need to have a "-ine" name for themselves, don't they?)**

* * *

 **A Secret Mission**

The Howling Fjord in the east was nothing like the Borean Tundra in the west. Whereas Garrosh Hellscream had landed in the worst possible place to land in Northrend - a barren tundra with little in the way of game or shelter from the winds - the Forsaken had landed in the more hospitable southeastern horn of Northrend. The cliffs around the Howling Fjord were filled with many dark coniferous trees, where wild things roamed. Chief among those things were the vrykul, giants whose attacks had threatened both the Horde and the Alliance in this region. For now, however, the vrykul were laying low: perhaps preparing for yet another assault. But not all those that had been encountered here in the north were hostile. The tuskarr, a mursine people native to Northrend, had received both the Horde and the Alliance warmly, as they saw them as defenders against their common enemy, the undead.

Today the sun was well on its way down into the west. In the hills on the east of Daggercap Bay, two Elves examined the land below. Down in the bay, at whose head the vrykul citadel of Utgarde stood, stood the fortress of Valgarde, the main camp of the Alliance situated here in the Howling Fjord. These two Elves were part of a scouting party that was sent to sound out the activity of the vrykul and Alliance forces in the area. They were about average height for their race: one was a mage in robes of crimson and gold, and the other a Blood Knight, one of Lady Liadrin's number. They had met before, some eight years ago, in the aftermath of the destruction of Quel'thalas, but they hadn't taken the time to know each other beyond just their names.

"Are you almost done, yet?" Lady Summersisle, the Blood Knight, inquired. "We've been here almost an hour, and it's getting late."

"Just be patient, Learrah," the mage replied, using Lady Summersisle's given name. "Scrying with arcane magic is a very delicate procedure. Not as simple as flailing about with a sword."

Lady Summersisle rolled her eyes, but said nothing, instead turning back to watch their back. Lanael Emberwing had been among the number who remained behind in Silvermoon when Kael'thas Sunstrider left to seek the aid of the survivors of Lordaeron; though in secret, he had gone to plunder magical artifacts to sate the thirst for magic that had afflicted the Blood Elven race. She still possessed the characteristic haughtiness of the Elven race, as all of them did, male or female. As such, Learrah did not correct her, though she was of a mind to do so.

As for herself, Learrah Summersisle had seen much since leaving Quel'thalas. She had seen the haughtiness and arrogance of the Blood Elves clash with the intolerance of Othmar Garithos, leader of the remnant of Lordaeron's military, which led to the break between the Sin'dorei and the Alliance. The capriciousness of the Elven race had led to isolate themselves from the rest of the north - like the human Kingdom of Gilneas - simply because they blamed the Alliance for the extent of the burning of their forests by the Horde; such arrogance did not find fault in leaving the Alliance for good over the provocation of one human.

It had been a downhill slope from there. When Kael'thas had suggested that his faithful soldiers use the power of the fel, the power of demons, to sate their thirst, Learrah had agreed to this. After all, it was fitting to fight fire with fire, to use the very power of those that had orchestrated the downfall of Quel'thalas against them. But then, after the taking of the Black Temple, she saw with her own eyes the one that her prince, and his lord, the Betrayer Illidan Stormrage, truly served: the demon-lord Kil'jaeden. She had become a pawn of evil, serving that which she had sworn to oppose.

But she drove these thoughts from her head. The past was that past, and things had changed. Rather than dwell on it, her thoughts came to what had transpired over the past few weeks. These so-called Knights of the Ebon Blade, the death knights that had left the service of the Lich King after the Battle of Light's Hope Chapel, were being placed among the other soldiers of the Horde and the Alliance for the campaign against the Scourge.

"What do you think about these death knights?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Lanael queried. "Where did this come from?"

"Just a thought," Learrah said. "What do you think about them?"

"It's complicated," Lanael returned. "For one thing, a magician does not see the world through the lens of good and bad: we see only power, only the magic. You Blood Knights wield Holy magic, I wield Arcane magic, the death knights wield Death magic. It's all quite simple, really."

"So why did you say it's complicated?" Learrah chuckled.

"Because the Kirin Tor used to teach that certain branches of magic were outlawed," Lanael said. "Particularly Death, Fel, and Shadow magic. At least, the old Kirin Tor did, back when Dalaran sat on the ground in Hillsbrad. Things have changed since I went there for secondary study."

"Changed, you say?" Learrah asked. "Have they apologized for imprisoning us?"

"Yes, they have!" Lanael answered. "I hear that they gave a quarter of the Violet City to the Sunreavers. If that's not an apology, I don't know what is!"

"You can say that, if you truly believe it," Learrah stated. "I for one am not so keen on trusting these humans, nor do I quite believe their 'apology.' The way I see it, if they weren't actively involved with imprisoning us, they turned the other way and let Garithos use the Violet Hold. Any port in a storm, after all."

"What do you mean?"

"The Kirin Tor were broken after the Third War," Learrah said. "I saw the ruins of Dalaran before it was moved from Hillsbrad. The demons sure did a number on it! They needed all the help they could get, and that's what Garithos represented: help in the way of manpower and resources. If they had to turn a blind eye when he oppressed us, or, even, actively aided him in doing so, in order to keep his protection, I don't think they saw it as too great a price to pay."

"You're assuming too much, Learrah," Lanael replied. "The Kirin Tor now isn't the same as it was back then." She then turned back to the scrying orb which was floating before her face. A smile spread across his face. "There, we're done."

"Good," Learrah said. "Let's get back to the lift. It's been a long day."

"Afraid, are you?" Lanael asked. "I thought you Blood Knights were all about facing peril."

"We are," Learrah returned. "It's been a long day, and I'm looking forward to some down-time. Feels like we haven't had a minute of it since this second plague broke out."

Lanael placed the scrying orb into the magically-enhanced satchel that was lying next to her, then pulled out from its depths a rolled up carpet. This she unfurled and placed on the ground, where it hovered slightly. The two them climbed on-board the carpet and ducked down as it took off, hovering just above the ground. A protective shield cast from Lanael kept them from being torn apart by the lash of the cold winds, but they couldn't use it to return to Vengeance Landing. Without a saddle, they would both fall off it as they passed down the sheer cliffs overlooking the Forsaken hold. Within thirty minutes, they arrived at the lift that would take them down to the bay where Vengeance Landing stood. Here the two Elves stepped off the carpet, and Lanael rolled it back up and placed it in her bag. The other scouts were already at the lift, waiting for the lift's basket to arrive.

It was a marvel of vrykul construction, these great lifts which granted access from the high cliffs to the deep gorges of the fjord, on both the eastern and western sides of the region. Shaped like great dragons of wood and stone, they extended several yards out from the cliff's edge. Within the dragon's head, two great wheels pulled the chain which was fastened to the basket, which could carry great weight and be lifted rather easily up and down. The vrykul who built them were giants, each of them easily twelve feet tall, and their wheels had been adjusted in order to be utilized by the smaller races. As the lifts were not made for one faction or the other, there was no on demand lift crew, and both the Horde and the Alliance had to have their own crews brought with them to operate the lift.

Once all the scouting parties were present and accounted for, several large Orcs and Tauren who were part of the eastern front - not many, as this front consisted almost entirely of Forsaken and Blood Elves - began to operate the wheels. Three minutes passed before the basket was brought to the top and everyone climbed inside. Down below, another group controlled a second pair of wheels that they could use to bring the basket to the bottom, which meant that the crew up top would not have to find another way down into the ravine. All in all, it took six minutes to bring the basket up to the top of the cliffs and then back down to the bottom of the ravine.

* * *

Once they reached the ground, they returned at once to Vengeance Landing and made their report to Dark Ranger Lyana, one of Sylvanas' Dark Rangers and second-in-command at the hold. She dismissed them, then sought out the other commanding officers to bring them up to speed. As it was night, the two Elves sought for themselves a place to sleep that was relatively protected from the elements but downwind of the main barracks. Forsaken barracks were more like charnel houses, full of the stench of decaying flesh and rotting embalming fluid: the buildings here in particular were not like those back in Lordaeron, which had been built by the human inhabitants of that region. These were built with the Forsaken in mind, and so they had no such troop quarters as the Warsong Hold in the west: instead, large bare chambers underground housed myriad wooden coffins for those Forsaken who wished to rest, though they hardly needed it.

No provisions were made for those who were not dead, and so those here at Vengeance Landing who were still living had to make due the best way they could. Some slept under the stars, or in small tents they had brought with them from Kalimdor, made of thick kodo hides and covered with fur pelts to keep out the cold. The Elves had for themselves several crimson or violet tents, under which they would sleep for the night: so it was for Lanael and Learrah, who had to double up. Lanael waved her hands, conjuring a blue-glowing image of runes and shapes that rotated around her hand, manipulating the tent to erect itself and rolling out rugs to protect them from the frozen ground. A single magical lamp floated above their heads to give them light as they unwound from the activity of the day. They had eaten very little that day, and so the evening meal was something to which they both looked forward. As it was, the Forsaken did not supply the living soldiers on the eastern front with food: they didn't see a need for food themselves and demanded that those who needed it go seek it out for themselves and not bother them with "small" and "unimportant" matters. A difficult matter for most, but not for a mage as skilled as Lanael. With a word, she conjured a small table of pale-blue glass that hovered just above the carpeted ground: upon the mage table were some pastry delights, such food as was common among mages while on journey. In addition to this, they had with them a skin of sweetened goat's milk and cold spring water, they latter they found while in the wild.

"Ugh!" Learrah groaned after taking a drink from the goat's milk. "How can anyone but a goat enjoy this?"

"We're not exactly living in the lap of luxury out here, you know," Lanael retorted. "We're soldiers in the Horde."

"Me, maybe," Learrah said. "But you're a mage; what's your excuse for not brewing us up something a bit more palatable?"

"No tea leaves," Lanael stated.

"And neither of us knows the first thing about picking plants," Learrah groaned: before the Scourge invaded Quel'thalas, Lady Summersisle had been an apprentice enchanter. She knew as much about botany and herbalism as a Gnome knew about the Holy Light.

"At least we have our conjured food," Lanael commented.

"It is quite tasty," Learrah commented.

They ate well, though conjured food wasn't as substantial as the real thing. It would keep them from starvation and provide a modicum of nourishment: on top of this, it was also very rich and delicious. Once they had finished eating, they pocketed any remnants and Lanael dispelled the table. Once this was done, Lanael began drawing runes on the ground on the perimeter of their little tent, which glowed with a soft fiery orange and yellow. The lamp gave light but not any heat, and they were farther north than their homeland. The heating runes were cast, the lamp was extinguished, and then they wrapped themselves in their blankets and made ready to sleep.

Learrah didn't quite fall asleep yet, for she was looking up at the sky. Colorful lights danced in the night-sky among the stars: these were the northern lights, which none in Quel'thalas had ever seen. The sailors who had first discovered Northrend told stories about the lights in the skies, but these were not as numerous as the horrific tales of the frigid north. What caused these lights was a different matter. The Forsaken hated all that was green and good in the world, and so cared not for the lights. The tuskarr believed that the spirits of their ancestors danced and shone brightly in the sky when they were filled with joy, and so the lights were to them a good omen: a rare thing in these dark times. For the Blood Knight, she found them quite beautiful and marveled when they were visible. Even after centuries of life in the magical land of the Elves, the natural magic of the earth could still turn her head.

Her ears perked up and she noticed that someone was approaching their tent. Her hand instinctively reached for her sword as she looked in the direction of the sounds.

"Who goes there?" she asked.

"Stay your blade, elf," the haggard voice of High Executor Anselm growled.

Learrah's hand left the side of her sword, and she stepped outside the tent and stood at attention.

"I won't waste time with small-talk," Anselm said. "You and your mage friend have an urgent assignment."

"What kind of assign..." Learrah began.

"Do not talk!" the Forsaken interjected. "Your duty is to listen." Learrah nodded, but said nothing else. "You are to escort a target across the Fjord to the tuskarr village of Kamagua. You leave immediately, so wake your companion and step lively: the target is waiting for you at the gates of the hold. I trust your Elven ears hear me clearly enough, that I need not repeat myself?"

Learrah nodded, then the High Executor saluted her and left the tent. She turned and roused Lanael, who was none too happy about being roused in the middle of the night, nor of the revelation that they wouldn't be sleeping at all tonight. They dressed themselves in their warmest clothes and took a small number of supplies for their journey, then girded themselves with their weapons: Lanael bore a staff of aspen wood, stained black and topped with a crimson gemstone at the head, while Learrah had her sword.

They ran as quickly as they could to the borders of the hold, and came to the gate. There they saw a figure robbed all in black waiting at the entrance of Vengeance Landing. As soon as they approached the figure, it turned about, discerning them from beneath its black hood.

"So, you're my escort?" the figure asked: the voice was the voice of a woman, but her tone was haggard and cold. "Hmm, well, it could be worse. Let's get a move on, then. I'm getting stir-crazy waiting for you."

"I'll make us a light," Lanael said, and light began to grow from the top of her staff.

"Put that out!" the hooded woman chided. "No one's supposed to know we're leaving."

"Then how do you expect to go about in the dark?" Lanael asked.

"I can see in the dark as well as the light," their target replied. "Now if there are no more questions, let's be on our way."

The two Elves followed the figure out of the hold, going steadily northwest. It was difficult tracking her in this darkness, clothed in black as she was, but she never went out of view and would wait for them if they fell behind. So the time passed and within minutes they found themselves near the edge of the massive cliffs.

"How are we going to get up these cliffs?" Learrah asked. "Should we go back for a crew for the lift?"

"We're not going up by the lift," the hooded woman said. She then produced from within her black robes a coil of rope and handed it to Learrah. "Tie this to your belt, then tie off the little mage at the end."

"'Little?'" Lanael retorted. "Excuse me, I may be little, but at least I don't smell!" She coughed. "By the Sunwell, what crawled up you and died?"

"You don't wanna know," the woman replied. "Now shut up and follow my lead. These cliffs are dangerous enough during the day."

Learrah bound the rope about her belt and then sent the rest to Lanael. Once they were all tied together, the hooded woman began to lead them up a narrow path that clung to the side of the cliffs. The bulk of the cliffs loomed constantly at their left-hand, while on their right was a dark void that fell into steadily increasing heights down into the valley below. The path was exceptionally narrow at points, so much that they were embracing the rocky face of the cliff for many yards until it widened enough for them to creep along. None of the two Elves dared stand upright, for the dizzying heights could still be felt, even here in the darkness: the howling of the cold northern wind upon their backs and the sides of their faces gave truth to how far up they were.

"You said these cliffs are dangerous," Lanael spoke. "But, well, we're alive and you're not. Would it be dangerous for you if you fell?"

"I don't know," the woman replied. "How about I push you off and see if it's dangerous for _you_ when you fall?"

"Don't be a fool!" Lanael retorted. "We're all tied together, you'll go down with us."

"Or I could cut you both free and watch you fall?" the woman asked. She then chuckled. "Oh, look at yourselves, scared for your lives. But you needn't worry: for the present, you're worth more to me alive."

"Yeah?" Learrah asked. "Why's that?"

But she said nothing more and continued up along the path. Learrah tried to wheedle information out of her, but she remained silent. At last, frustrated, Learrah stopped dead in her tracks.

"What's wrong?" the woman asked. "The way's clear."

"Just what are we doing up here?" Learrah asked. "Cowering out of Vengeance Landing in the middle of the night, up the side of a dangerous cliff-face?"

"My business is on a strict need-to-know basis," the woman said. "And you don't need to know."

"Oh, I think I do," Learrah retorted. "Just remember that you're tied to us, and we can take you down to the bay with us if you won't cooperate."

"Um, excuse me?" Lanael interjected. "I don't particularly like the idea of dying, just so we're clear."

"Even so," Learrah continued. "We're not moving. And since there's two of us and one of you, and I'm guessing you're not an Orc or a Tauren, you can't move one way or another, can you?"

"I have the knife," the woman said. "And I will cut you off and leave you here..."

"Answer the question, dammit!" Learrah frustratedly said. "Or I'll shout down to the hold about our presence. Give away your little secret."

"Why do you want to know?" the woman asked. "Haven't you ever heard that curiosity will be the death of you?"

"You're not Kel'thuzad!" Learrah returned. "Now come on, fess up."

The woman made a noise that sounded almost like a low growl. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. And I can't kill you: not yet."

"Why not?" Learrah asked. "Why's it so important that we remain alive?"

"Do you have a death-wish?" the woman asked.

"Answer me!"

"This is not the time or place for that!" the woman retorted. "Let's get to the top first, then I'll tell you what I can."

"How do I know you'll follow through?" Learrah asked.

"You don't," the woman answered. "But right now, your lives are in my hands, so you really have no choice but to trust me. Alright? Is that enough for you? Now shut up and climb!"

As they went on, Lanael whispered up at her companion.

"What was that about?" she asked. "Why are you so interested in that smelly undead's business?"

"I'm not like you, Lanael," Learrah returned. "I didn't have their help in the Ghostlands fighting against the Scourge. I went with Kael'thas into Outland, so this is the first time I've been around these Forsaken in a while. Besides..." She looked back in the direction of Lanael and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"This whole business is fishy," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain later," Learrah returned. "Once we leave Kamagua."

* * *

The time passed slowly, but at last they gained the top of the cliffs. Here the air was fresh with the smell of pine-trees. Learrah wasted no time whatsoever, and drew her sword almost as soon as she got up to the top, and leveled the blade at their target.

"Alright," she said. "We made it to the top. Now start talking."

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked. "The Dark Lady would be most displeased."

"Why should Sylvanas care about you?" Learrah asked.

"I already told you," the woman retorted. "My business is secret. If I told you..."

"...you'd have to kill us, I know," Learrah finished. "But you need us alive as well. Why? Why are we so important to your mission?"

"To be perfectly frank, you're not important at all," the woman stated. "I'm quite capable of doing this assignment on my own."

"Then why are we here?" Learrah asked. The woman began, but the Elf cut her off. "Look, whatever your business is, we don't need to know it, okay? I'm willing to compromise, so long as you tell us why we're so important that you can't do this yourself."

The woman growled again, but remained stiff as a board. At last she spoke.

"A few months ago," she said. "I was captured by the Scarlet Crusade."

"The Scarlet Crusade hate the undead," Lanael said. "They don't differentiate Scourge from Forsaken. How did you escape them?"

"I'm very resourceful," the woman replied. "But not enough, it seemed. The Scarlet scum stole something from the Undercity, and I allowed myself to be captured in order to get it back. When the time came, I made my escape and took back what was stolen: but the Scarlet scum had deceived me and I came back empty-handed. Now I must prove my worth to the Dark Lady. You two are here to ensure that I get to Kamagua in one piece, without compromising my mission. Is that enough for you?"

Learrah said nothing, but mulled over what she had heard. There was more to this woman's story than she was letting on, this she could tell at first-hand. For one thing, what thing in the Undercity could be so valuable that it was sought after by the Scarlet Crusade? She knew about them, and knew that they had little interest in gold or other fine things: they were zealots, people who wanted nothing more than their country back. What could they have stolen that was so valuable that she had to go back to get it, and was likewise punished for her failure by having chaperones on her next assignment?

"Please forgive her," Lanael interjected. "Lady Summersisle speaks for both of our frustration and weariness. Yesterday was a long day and we were both tired and looking forward to a good night's sleep."

"Hmph!" the woman scoffed. "You living are so fragile. That's why the Forsaken are superior: we don't need to sleep."

"Superior, huh?" Lanael asked. "Do you feel no pain?"

"None at all," the woman stated. "Neither can we drown, and we're immune to all known poisons."

"But...you're _dead!_ " Lanael exclaimed.

" _Un_ dead, thank you very much," the woman retorted. "I don't take kindly to being grouped in with those mindless zombies of the Scourge."

Learrah chuckled. "Upset over a few words? And you say the living are fragile."

"Don't test me, elf!" the woman snarled. "I have yet to see what your kind tastes like."

"Disgusting," Learrah groaned, rolling her eyes.

* * *

They went on in silence for many long hours. Around them, the dark woods of the uplands rose up to meet them. The wind howled restlessly through their boughs, broken ever and anon by the distant screech of an eagle high above their heads. Far off to the northwest, a wolf howled at the moons. The blood of the three women in the darkness was chilled at the sound, but they kept their pace. Presently, there was something else that brought them greater concern. The further inland they moved, they could hear low rumbling and feel the very ground shaking gently but disturbingly beneath their feet.

"Is this an earthquake?" the woman asked.

"Not an earthquake," Learrah said. "We must be near Giant's Run. We should turn south quickly. Those giants are not to be trifled with, especially at night."

Slowly, they made their way south. Despite their mutual distrust for each other, the woman had to be led by Learrah, who knew this land from her scouting missions. According to the Blood Knight, they would reach an old Vrykul road that passed from one end of the fjord to the other just north of Baleheim. This they would follow roughly all the way to the western coast. From there, they would have little difficulty reaching Kamagua so long as they stayed clear of Westguard Keep, the Alliance's second fortress in the area beside Valgarde within Daggercap Bay.

Several more tense minutes passed in the darkness of night. At length, they could hear the distant rhythmic beating of drums and deep voices chanting in a tongue they knew not. Through the trees they could see, in that direction, the faint glowing of fire.

"Vrykul!" Learrah whispered. "We must be nearing Baleheim." She paused, looking this way and that. "We should be near the road. Let's go there instead."

"Where's that bravado you were showing against me?" asked the woman. "I would have thought a Blood Knight like you would have charged in head-first like a bull in heat."

"There's a fine line between bravery and foolishness," Learrah replied. "Fighting these half-giants when we're outnumbered ten to one is on the foolish side. Their women are almost twice as tall as the Tauren."

"Even the biggest oaf has a weakness," the woman stated.

"Just the same," Learrah interjected. "We're hoping to get you to Kamagua and get back to Vengeance Landing quickly."

"Very well, then," the woman said. "That suits my mission just fine. Let's be on our way."

They sought out the road in the darkness, keeping as far away from the lights of Baleheim as possible. The trees failed around that small town, and they would have no cover if they came closer. They found the road and began their long march across the region. Their path took them north by northwest, skirting the northern end of the fjord. The land rose and fell in stark hills and mounds, and here and there the quiet would be broken by a rushing stream, or the thudding hooves of a small herd of shoveltusks; a race of arctic ruminants that dwelt in the more hospitable southern regions of Northrend.

* * *

Hours passed under the frigid night sky. Dawn was a long way off, and the three were still many miles away from their goal. Their path wound through the woods to the north of Daggercap Bay, leading them slowly but surely toward the western coast. The hooded woman had no difficulty in keeping them to the road, though the darkness was deep and the eyes of the two living Blood Elves were heavy with sleep. By and by, however, Baleheim began to disappear behind them. But they were not yet out of danger from the vrykul. The road led them around the northern end of Skorn; a vrykul town built on a wide hill that was many times larger than Baleheim. Here the trees became scarce and they had to hope that distance and the darkness and the tall longhouses of Skorn would hide them from the eyes of their enemies.

The road began to turn south, with the eaves of a great forest to the north, and here they came to another halt.

"Why are we stopping" Learrah asked.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Lanael groaned at the back of the group.

"We can't stay here," Learrah said. "We haven't reached Kamagua yet." She noticed the woman approach them quietly. "Hey you, uh, do you have a name? I'd rather not call you 'hey you' if you don't mind."

"You're a persistent b*tch, aren't you?" the woman asked.

"Don't call me a b*tch, rotter!" Learrah retorted. "You know I can strike you down with the Holy Light?"

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," the woman returned. "The Dark Lady is not someone you want as your enemy."

"She may be _your_ leader, but she's still an Elf, even if she's a dead one," Learrah said. "Do you really think she'd turn against one of her own?"

"If you stood in the way of her plans, yes," the woman answered. "Without a second thought. Now, stop b*tching and help me make a decision, will you?"

"What do you need?" Lanael asked.

"According to the map," the woman said. "There's a fork in the road: one way goes north, the other south. The north way takes us across a stream and near a Royal Apothecary camp, just before entering the Grizzly Hills. They will certainly help us."

"How?" Learrah asked. "That's out of our way, isn't it?"

"At first glance, yes," the woman replied. "But, they might have boats there that could take us to Kamagua by sea."

"That's a lot of back-tracking," Learrah said. "And through icy waters."

"You don't know how to row a boat?" the woman scoffed.

"Of course I do," Learrah retorted. "It would be slow, as we're kind of small."

"I thought you Blood Knights were supposed to be strong," the woman sneered.

"There are different kinds of strength than physical might," Learrah reasoned.

"Sounds like something a Gnome would say," scoffed the woman. "Surprised to see this coming from a member of the Horde! Maybe your kind belong with the Alliance."

"Light, preserve me..." Learrah muttered beneath her breath.

"There is no light!" the woman mocked.

"You better hope there _is_ ," Learrah returned. "And that it gives me the patience to endure you, otherwise I'd have cut you down by now!"

"Stop it, both of you!" Lanael interjected. "In case you forgot, we're in the wilderness and there's things about that could hear us!"

"They'd be frightened of all the noise this dainty little princess is making," the woman said, gesturing to Learrah.

"This isn't Lordaeron or Quel'thalas!" Lanael stated. "The beasts hereabouts are much larger, and much more savage. We've been strangely fortunate so far, but we might just run into one of them." Learrah lowered her head in shame, but the woman remained defiant. Lanael, seeing herself as having to step up to the task of keeping the group focused, spoke up. "What about the south road?"

"That's the direct route to Kamagua, by way of the Ancient Lift," she replied. "The only problem is that will lead us past Westguard Keep."

"Afraid of a few Alliance soldiers?" Learrah interjected. "And how can you even _read_ a map in the darkness?"

"I read it during the day, you ignorant b*tch!" the woman retorted.

"Can you not!" Learrah exclaimed.

"Looks like flesh really does make you weak!" the woman scoffed.

"Let's see how strong you are when I smite your rotting ass with the Light!" Learrah retorted. She held out her hand before the woman, the armored gauntlet glowing with the Light; the woman lurched backward nervously, her hand reaching into her cloak for a weapon.

"Such frustration," the woman said. "And I thought you were repulsed by the idea of me eating you!"

"Ugh, disgusting!" Learrah exclaimed. "Trust me, I have no thoughts of the kind. By the Light, how could you possibly think there's anything between us except mutual contempt?"

"So touchy!" the woman scoffed. "Maybe you _do_ like me like that!"

"Ladies, please!" Lanael interjected.

"I happen to like men, if you must know," Learrah returned. "And if I didn't, I certainly wouldn't be interested in a walking corpse!"

"Do you like her, then?" the woman asked, nodding to Lanael.

"Why, just because we travel together?" Learrah exclaimed. "You're as bad as those imbeciles who think Lady Proudmoore is in an elicit affair with the Warchief."

"Well, aren't they?" the woman asked. "How else can you explain why they're not trying to kill each other? Why they kiss each other's asses every time they're in the same damn room?"

"I don't know, maybe _some_ people can respect someone without being sexually attracted to them?" Learrah asked. "Did that enter your mind, or is that rotten too?"

"Silence, both of you!" Lanael shouted, and thrust her staff between them, casting them both back with a mildly concussive spell.

Suddenly something else took their attention away from the fight. A loud snarl was heard from somewhere behind them and to the north. Lanael's staff glowed with light, illuminating the ground around them with a soft blue glow. From out of the darkness there appeared three large canine shapes. But these were not the wolves known to Lordaeron: these were direwolves, large and fierce, the savage beasts of the far north. While their smaller cousins in the Eastern Kingdoms could be startled off by a show of force or loud noises, these were sturdier rogues and wouldn't back down from such meager provocation.

Learrah drew her sword; a thin, slender thing with a slightly curved blade and engravings of eagle's wings upon the hilt and blade. Lanael held out her other hand, conjuring a fire-ball, and the woman pulled out from her cloak two knives. One of the wolves leaped at the woman and tackled her to the ground. Learrah moved to help her, but another one leaped at her. Swiftly she spun in place, and, bracing her feet firmly against the cold, frozen ground, she swung her sword at the beast. The blade dug deep into the wolf's snout, sticking fast upon the bone, but didn't cut all the way through. The force of the blow threw the wolf back, but now Learrah's sword was stuck fast into the creature's snout: blood-curdling howls of pain came from the beast as blood poured upon the ground and staining the Elven longsword. Lanael sent a fire-ball into the hide of the third, and set it aflame. The wolf fled off into the night, fur aflame, and was seen by them no more. Learrah kicked the wolf in the snout, pulling back with all of her might, and wrenched the blade free; following up, she swung her blade down and drove its blade deep into its chest. The blade struck through the fur, passing between the ribs, and pierced the heart, putting the wounded creature out of its misery.

The Elves turned to their target, who was pushing off of her the wolf that had leaped upon her: its body fell limp to her side, obviously dead. In the light from Lanael's staff, they saw that the target's hood had fallen off during the struggle, revealing a pale head covered in long dark hair. For a moment they halted, and were amazed: she almost looked human to their eyes. Her face had no maggot holes and her nose and ears were intact; but there the similarities ended. Her lips were black, her skin was paler than the pastiest librarian, and a fiendish yellow light glowed in her eyes.

"What?" she asked. "What are you two staring at?"

"We expected you to be, well..." stammered Lanael.

"What, rotting?" the Forsaken asked. "Does it bother you that a filthy undead could look this good?"

"Disgusting!" Learrah exclaimed.

"Is that the only word in your vocabulary, elf?" the Forsaken asked.

"A noble-woman doesn't stoop to using coarser language," Learrah said. "That's for peasants."

"So what now, huh?" the Forsaken asked. "Back to business?"

"No!" Lanael interjected. "We still have our job to do, remember? That fire-fight might have alerted Westguard Keep. We should make our choice and be quick about it."

"South," Learrah said. "North would take us back towards the wolves, and there'd be needless backtracking once we reached the Apothecary camp. Might as well go straight on from here. If you can shut your rotten mouth, that is!"

"Why?" the Forsaken asked, flashing blackened teeth marked by what none of them dared to wonder. "Does my mouth make you uncomfortable?"

"Yes, actually!" Learrah retorted. "It's where that accursed smell's coming from! Ugh, I thought your kind didn't eat!"

"Not living food," the Forsaken replied. "We get ours from our enemies...or those allies of ours fortunate enough to fall in battle." She chuckled. "It wasn't your nethers I had a mind to eat, elf."

Learrah turned her head in disgust. Cannibalism was something practiced by trolls and other barbaric creatures. Lanael made a face and extinguished her staff. They went forward in silence, following the southward road across a great bridge. Here the air was cool and blew breezily upon their faces. While they walked, Lanael approached Learrah and spoke to her in a whispered voice.

"You really need to stop letting that Forsaken get under your skin," she said. "She's making a mockery of you."

"I can't stand her," Learrah returned. "She actively antagonizes me, like it's some kind of sick, twisted game to her! And her talk of cannibalism, it's obscene!"

"She's still our ward," Lanael stated. "Try to stay on task, if possible. You mercilessly mock and deride her behind her back all you want once she's at Kamagua and we're on our way back to Vengeance Landing. I'll join you, even."

"I'll try my best," Learrah answered.

But that would be much easier said than done. Hours passed, and the Forsaken woman seemed to be tireless in their path. The lights in the sky danced over the bay and all seemed peaceful for a time. Suddenly the stars and the Northern lights faded under a dark, black shadow. Beneath it the air was thick and smoky, and in the distance, faint, still-burning embers could be seen glowing on into the darkness.

"What is this shadow?" Learrah asked.

"I think it's from Ember Clutch," Lanael answered.

"Afraid of a little darkness?" the Forsaken asked. "Where's your precious light now?"

"Can you not, please?" Learrah groaned. "We're exhausted. We've walked for miles this night, it's only a few hours before dawn. Can't you stop being a total b*tch?"

"Let me think about it," the Forsaken replied sarcastically. "Hm, no. It's too much damn fun."

"Why?" Learrah asked, her patience having run out. "Why is it so much fun to taunt us and ridicule us?"

"Not this agai...oof!" Lanael began, but stopped short as her foot caught on a large, dense thing lying on the ground.

"You Elves did it to us lesser races a long time ago," the Forsaken said. "Why was it okay then? Answer me that."

"We happen to be superior in every way to humans, Dwarves, Gnomes, and especially Orcs, Trolls, and their ogre allies," Learrah retorted. "Why is it wrong to be the lords, ladies, nay, the gods that we deserve to be?"

"Such arrogance," sneered the Forsaken. "It's a good thing the Scourge attacked Silvermoon: knocked your people off your high horse and brought you down to our level."

"By the Light, you're as bad as that fool Othmar Garithos!" Learrah snapped.

"I take offense to that remark!"

"Bite me."

"Is that an invitation?"

"Learrah!" Lanael interjected.

"I've heard about this Garithos," the Forsaken interjected. "He hated the Elves and Dwarves for abandoning the Alliance during and after the Second and Third Wars. In the end, he was eaten by the Forsaken: a fitting end for such a monster. But I am a different monster than he: the Horde was certainly better off before you petty, bright-eyed pricks joined us, but I don't hate you as he did." She stopped and looked back at them. "Your friend I don't hate. She's not being an ass. Why can't you be like her?"

"I'm not her," Learrah said. "I've seen more of the world than Lanael has, even as far as the barren remains of Outland. I've seen monsters wearing friendly masks, offering us the gift of friendship and the strength of unity and allegiance, only to sell us out to the very demons that destroyed our homeland. I don't give away my trust so easily anymore."

"Not an unwise decision," the Forsaken commented. "Still, I like tormenting you."

"Why?"

"You're so easy to manipulate," the Forsaken said. "Your devotion to the Light makes you touchier than usual: I like that." She paused, sighing for a moment.

"What?" Learrah asked.

"You remind me of someone I used to know," said the Forsaken woman. "Gone for all I know now."

"Um, excuse me?" Lanael spoke up. "I'd really appreciate it if we got a move-on. Remember that we're still not out of gunshot of Westguard Keep. In fact I think I just tripped over a cannonball just a few moments ago."

"She's right," the Forsaken returned. "You're being too loud. Are you capable of shutting up or shall I put a gag on your mouth?"

"How have you survived this long with a mouth like that?" Learrah asked.

"People who cross me find a knife in their throats before long," the Forsaken replied. "That's wh..."

"Shut it, both of you!" Lanael exclaimed. "We're not alone anymore!"

"What do you mean?" Learrah asked.

"I sense something nearby," the mage replied. "Something very powerful."

Learrah drew her sword and the Forsaken her knives. All about them was darkness, and the skies above her hidden by the smoke from the Ember Clutch. Lanael dispelled the light from her staff and summoned a fire-ball that hovered in her left hand, ready to be thrown. They suddenly became aware that there was something else in the air about them besides the smoke. The cold had subsided from the ambient heat radiating from the Ember Clutch, but the heat was not strong either; even the scent of smoke was faint and distant, though the glowing embers showed that it was not too far off.

"What's that smell?" Learrah asked. "It's like...Eversong Woods in the summertime."

"It's hideous!" the Forsaken retched.

Learrah smirked: even if the smell hadn't reminded her of home, anything that annoyed the Forsaken woman was enough for her. Nevertheless, this freshness and vibrant odor was being caused by something. Learrah's eyes looked this way and that, attempting to pierce the shadows and find whatever it was that Lanael had sensed. Suddenly she paused. Two small silver eyes appeared out of the darkness. She hesitated, looking carefully at them: she hadn't seen eyes like those in almost eight years. They almost reminded her of...

"Bear!" Lanael cried out.

A low growl was heard near at hand, sending the three of them turning in the direction of the sound. The glow of the fire-ball in Lanael's hand revealed a bear of massive size. The bear wasn't moving towards them, but instead remained in place, standing its ground against the three opponents. The mage readied her hand to throw the fire-ball at the bear, while the Forsaken had her daggers at the ready. Learrah, on the other hand, was slowly sheathing her sword.

"Learrah, what are you doing?" Lanael whispered.

"I don't think that's a bear," Learrah returned. "They never come this far south of the Grizzly Hills."

"Then what is it?" Lanael asked.

Learrah had noticed something that none of the others had seen: those silver eyes were now within the face of that bear. She doubted that the others had seen them: it was believed among the Horde that they kept to themselves in their forests, unconcerned with the troubles of other races. But she had seen them once before in Silverpine Forest, as she had been with Kael'thas' army, escorting them to the ruins of Dalaran: Kal'dorei. Night Elves. It had been many thousands of years since the Quel'dorei, the High Elves, had sundered themselves from their brethren who had refused to practice magic. The House of Summersisle had been but a small family at the time when they sailed east to find a new home for themselves, where they could be free to practice their forbidden arcane magic. Seeing them again proved the old legends were true, that there were still Night Elves living in the world. Learrah paused, holding up her hands in a gesture of friendship.

" _Ishnu-alah_ ," she said to the bear.

Why she spoke to it, or what she hoped to gain from this, she could not guess. Millennia of separation surely must have estranged their two races. Furthermore, the Sin'dorei were stained with corruption. None of their leaders, haughty and aloof as they were, would have admitted it, instead choosing to defend their evil actions as necessary. But the truth was that the Elven race had fallen greatly from the place of exaltation and nobility that it once possessed: serving the Burning Legion, draining the life and Light from a naaru, and now allying with the Horde, the very monsters that had destroyed their forests during the Second War. If this bear was a Night Elf, surely he could sense the fel within her, as clearly as the green light in her eyes and those of Lanael: would he show them mercy or maul them as the enemies that they were?

* * *

 **(AN: Well, this chapter became quite a challenge. The hooded Forsaken woman who was the target for our two Blood Elves was, in case you couldn't guess, none other than Mardenholde. I intentionally didn't have her mention her name, since I already felt that she spoke enough in this chapter of her business. What it is I won't say, since that's one of the mysteries that will unfold throughout this story. It did become a challenge having them pause on their way to have a knock-down drag-out argument every so often. In the end, I did get to have some of Mardenholde's original purpose in this chapter, which was to describe a bit of what the Forsaken are like. I also satired that trope which I've found in the circles of Warcraft [and other] fandoms for years: the idea that two diametrically opposed characters are sexually attracted to each other if they have even a small affinity for each other [like Thrall and Jaina]. One can like or hate something without being attracted to it.)  
**


	3. The Druid and the Rogue

**(AN: I ended the last chapter on a cliff-hanger for the express purpose...of giving the conclusion thereof in this chapter. Here we switch to the Alliance perspective momentarily, but worry not: next chapter we'll be back with the Horde.)**

 **(I just got to say that I'm fed up with the way that the fans absolutely HATE every Night Elf who isn't Illidan. Everything from "Malfurion burned Teldrassil because he was playing with matches" to "Night Elves are boring Tolkien elves" and, the most laughable one of all, "Tyrande sucks because Malfurion told her to be quiet that one time in the Well of Eternity dungeon and she didn't tell him off." Because of this, since this chapter is in the Alliance perspective, I'm going to have a Night Elf or two appear in this story and we will get to see things from their perspective.)**

 **(Last thing here, honest, but the Nightbourne unlock scenario in _Battle for Azeroth_ is dumb [as was _Cataclysm_ 's race-class mix-up throwing Night Elf mages where they don't belong]. The Night Elves didn't "reluctantly" help the Nightbourne, the Blood Elves are guilty of being "cloistered" even more than the Night Elves [-cough- abandoning the Alliance and walling themselves in their forests after the Second War and during the Third War, AND, to top it all off, Thalyssra sees Lor'themar treat Alleria Crack-Snorter like crap because of her crack void magic and is all "I agree with that." But then again, she also uses an army of enchanted slaves [the withered] to kill her own people, so she fits right in with the "not evil but somewhat fascist" Blood Elves.)**

* * *

 **The Druid and the Rogue**

Andaril Forestsong was a long way from home. He had been among the druids of the Kal'dorei who had volunteered to enter the Emerald Dream in order to restore the land that had been broken by the Sundering. During the second invasion of the Burning Legion - what their allies referred to as the Third War - he had been awoken, along with the other druids. As a member of the Cenarion Circle, he had been quite active in the past few years, aiding the Alliance in southern Kalimdor as well as the dangerous world of Outland. Now he and other Night Elves had been called to Northrend to take part in the war against the Lich King and the Undead Scourge.

Though he had been transferred from Valgarde to Westguard Keep, he didn't quite enjoy staying indoors. Millennia of wandering the endless paths of the mysterious Emerald Dream had made him more in tune with nature than the civilized world. These past few weeks, he was often to be found wandering the forests of the Ember Clutch, transformed into a mighty blue-black bear, sometimes accompanied by his companion Faewing, a faerie dragon he had befriended in his centuries of wandering. The forests had been burned and the proto-drake clutches here had been plagued, and he had volunteered to look into this: it might very well be the doing of the vile Forsaken from their nearby hold of New Agamand.

During his nightly wandering, his keen ears caught the sound of loud and vehement arguing amid the trees. The words were in the Common Tongue, which he knew from his dealings with the humans. Nothing that was said was of any importance to him: one of the voices was antagonizing the other, who responded in kind, and the third voice was the only one aware of his presence. Faewing vanished as the voices drew closer, but he stepped out from among the trees to get a closer look at them. All the Night Elf children could see in the darkness, sometimes even farther than in daylight, and Andaril was no exception; he marked two Sin'dorei and one of the undead who called themselves the Forsaken. He sensed the foul stench of fel magic upon the two Elves, though faint and distant, and was overwhelmed by the odor of death and decay emanating from the undead. These had done terrible deeds, he surmised from the aura of evil that was about them, and were likely up to more mischief out in the wild at this time of night. It would be the right choice to attack them here and now and end whatever misery they had brought to this world.

His quarry noticed them, and they drew their weapons, ready to defend themselves. They were small, the size of human women: hardly a match for his strength. Even a Sentinel or two could have easily taken them out before they could have drawn the first blow. One was a mage to boot, a user of the wild arcane magic that had been forbidden by the Archdruid of Moonglade. He was almost certain that they were up to no good: he knew now what had to be done. His four inch claws gripped the frozen ground tightly, ready to push himself off for his leap upon them. A few blows, and some singed fur, and then he would have them. There was no escape for them out here in the wilds in the dead of night.

Then, to his amazement, one of the Elves - the one armed and armored as a soldier - sheathed her sword. She held up her hands and looked at him. Was it a gesture of surrender? Of peace? He could see the emerald glow of fel magic in her eyes: the trust of Priestess Whisperwind in the Sin'dorei eight years ago had been in vain, they had fallen into wickedness and folly, becoming the very thing they had once fought against.

"Good fortune to you," the Elven woman said in greeting, speaking in the Elven tongue.

Andaril's silver eyes widened. To hear the tongue of his people coming from the lips of an enemy startled him. Though the Night Elves and the Blood Elves had been estranged for thousands of years, enough of their mother tongue remained that they could understand one another in their speech. He hesitated: to strike now would be to attack without provocation one who had extended a blessing of friendship. Yet he knew, or guessed, that they were about some great mischief. Would it not be better to strike them down and put an end to whatever evil they were about to cause, no matter what shame and dishonor he might incur?

Yet as he stared down this Blood Elf, something else appeared in the Elven woman's eyes. She seemed to be completely earnest in her plea, an unusual thing for the Sin'dorei. Furthermore, he sensed something else about this one in particular. Something that was not wholly evil about her. At any rate, it would be improper to attack an enemy who came in peace.

He let out a low growl and stepped back into the shadows. To his surprise, the three of them did not give chase, but instead continued on south, down the road toward the Ancient Lift to Kamagua. He waited until they were out of sight before setting his eyes back northward, towards the keep. At that moment, there was a pop and a glissando of energy ringing like tiny silver bells. In the air above Andaril's head there floated Faewing, his companion. She was about a cubit in length from the tip of her snout to the end of her tail, which was often curled and never fully straightened out, and covered in shimmering turquoise scales. Two feathery antennae sprouted from the top of her head, and she bore great glistening wings, colored pink, purple, and turquoise, covered with many white spots. In her little head were two black eyes which blinked open and gazed in thoughtful silence at Andaril before speaking. Her voice was high-pitched, cheerful in tone, and clicked with vocal fry at the cadences of words: though she spoke the Elvish tongue spoken by Night Elves that had been called Darnassian, it was broken and words were often out of place.

"Friend-druid," she said. "Those were enemies. Why let them get away?"

"They are not enemies to us," Andaril replied. "Not yet, at least."

"But one of them was a mage!" Faewing stated. "That is not very happy-making, you know."

"Yes, I know," Andaril said. "And we may have to face them in battle one day soon. But for now, they came in peace. I could not kill them here and now."

"Who knows what bad-making they will do, because of your mercy," Faewing commented.

Andaril sighed. "Perhaps. Only time will tell. For now, I must return to Westguard Keep."

"Until our next journey together, friend," Faewing said, concluding with a slight giggle before vanishing with a pop and a shimmer; the same way she had appeared.

Andaril smiled, then transformed into an owl and took wing. Such was the way of faerie dragons, to always appear and disappear. Rarely did they appear in great numbers among the forces of the Sentinels or the Cenarion Circle, and if they did appear, it was only during times of great distress. Furthermore, they could not be tamed, and no Night Elf would dare tame any creature: the night-sabers that bore the Sentinels into battle were their companions and bore them or not of their own free will. A human would, of course, complain about the arrangement, stating that a true ally would stay with them at all times, through thick and thin, no matter what: but then again, humans were a unique race.

They had never been open to the call of nature as the Kal'dorei had been, and so they cared little for balance. Some of the bolder ones even ridiculed the Kal'dorei for their reclusive nature, decrying them as unfaithful and useless allies. Of course their tone changed whenever they had need of a druid among their midst: no human, Dwarf, gnome, or even the Draenei, had as deep a connection with the spirits and forces of nature as the druids. Nevertheless, they did not force their culture, opinions, or rules on the other races: they no longer wished to be masters of the world, as they had been in the days of Queen Azshara. They wished only to be left alone in their forests, protecting the wilds while they yet lived.

* * *

Morning dawned over the Howling Fjord. From the massive Utgarde Keep at the head of Daggercap Bay came the vrykul battle-horns, sending their warriors out for another adventure. On the western shore, a giant turtle set off through the icy waters off the coast of the tuskarr village of Kamagua, bearing a solitary figure clad all in black atop its hardened shell. At Westguard Keep, a lone owl arrived outside the barracks and transformed into a tall Night Elf male. Andaril cut quite an impressive figure: tall, lean, with a blue beard that fell down to his knees, and a body as muscular as the bear whose form he had been in the past night. He wore a leather skirt that ended an inch or two below his knees, but no other clothing did he wear. Instead, he bore the aspect of the creature into which form he was wont to transform: a cloak of owl feathers upon his back, and gauntlets covered in fur with large bear claws upon his hands.

As soon as he had appeared, a Dwarf in steel plate armor, with a long gray-white beard, approached the Night Elf.

"There ye are, Andi!" roared the Dwarf. Andaril groaned internally: he hated the nickname that Captain Adams had given him. "Been huggin' trees all night? Get in t'da keep: I've got an assignment for ye!"

Andaril rolled his eyes, then followed the Dwarf back into the keep. They passed through the gates and entered the courtyard, where a company was being drilled by one of the camp sergeants. Rather than entering the officer's quarters by the barracks door to the left, Captain Adams led the Night Elf straight ahead, past the drilling soldiers, toward the door that led to the dungeon.

"Where are we going?" Andaril asked.

"There's a matter come t'me from Valgarde, of all th' accursed nuisances," the Dwarven commander grumbled. "An, sad t' say, yer number's up on this'un."

"Am I being imprisoned?" Andaril asked. "I've served the Expedition faithfully, never once entertaining thoughts of desertion..."

"Aye, that's true," Captain Adams replied. "An' yer nae goin' in ta d'clink. While ye were down south in Ember Clutch these past few days, a prisoner came me way from Valgarde."

"A prisoner?" Andaril asked.

"Aye," Captain Adams nodded. "Some problem child er sommit. She's supposed t'be sent t'battle, and ye're th' only senior officer available."

Andaril sighed. "I usually work alone. Did you consider that?"

"I dunnae think Vice Admiral Keller gave a damn," Captain Adams replied. "No sense'n arguin' 'bout it now. Th' lass is downstairs. Jailer's got her keys, he'll let her out for ye."

"I suppose there's no way out of this?" Andaril asked.

"Nae," Captain Adams said, shaking his head. "I'm over me 'ead in dealin' with th' vrykul and th' damn Forsaken, I cannae do a thing about this."

"I see."

By now they had come to the prison hold and stood at the top of the stairs that led down into the prison. Here Captain Adams left Andaril to his assignment.

"A word o advice, though," said the Dwarf. "Keller said she's a pain in th' arse. I'll try an' compensate ye fer doin' this."

As the Captain left, Andaril walked down the stairs to the dungeon. In the nearest cell, he saw a young human woman lying on the cell's single cot, on her back with her legs held parallel up against the wall. She seemed rather bored and detached, as though this hadn't been the first time she had been in a prison ward before. Andaril walked over to the bars of her cell and addressed her.

"I hear you were sent over from Valgarde to be my charge," he said. The woman seemed not to notice him, idly throwing a small rubber ball against the stone wall and catching it with her hand as it came back down. He cleared his throat. "I've been assigned as your supervisor. Perhaps you could tell me why you're in prison."

"Do Night Elf men have something against shirts?" the young woman asked.

"What?" Andaril asked.

"It's freezing up here and you're not wearing a shirt," the woman retorted. "Are you mad?"

Andaril chuckled. "Your concern is noted, but there is no need. Such things are not necessary for me."

"Whatever," the woman returned, rolling her eyes. "Just don't try anything, okay?"

"Never crossed my mind," Andaril replied. "I am your...uh, commanding officer, I believe."

"You're my chaperone, you mean?" the woman asked. "I don't need help, thank you very much. I've gotten along just fine on my own."

"Well, that makes two of us," Andaril said. "I also prefer the company of beasts to mortals."

The woman made a devious grin. "I heard Night Elf men were strange."

"Now, before we leave," Andaril stated. "I want to know why you were in prison."

"A funny question to ask a thief," the woman said.

"I didn't know you were a thief," the Night Elf replied.

"You didn't?" she asked. "What, they don't have thieves where you come from?"

"To be certain, they did," said Andaril, taken aback by her question. "Only, well, things have been very...shall we say...static for my people over the past ten thousand years. There hasn't been time for petty crimes such as theft."

"'Petty crimes?'" the woman asked. "I'm not sure I like being called a 'petty' criminal by some tall, purple, shirtless, deer-fucking elf!"

"Such insolence!" Andaril retorted. "I do not copulate with deer!"

"Really?" asked the woman. "I've heard some of you grow antlers."

"The aspects of the beasts that we bear is none of your concern!" Andaril retorted, his anger rising. "Now tell me, why were you in prison?"

She sighed. "I told you, I'm a thief."

"Yes, I know that," said the Elf. "But why are you here?"

"I don't know," the woman returned. "They don't want to stain their hands with my blood, so they ship me off here to let the Horde or the undead kill me?"

"I cannot believe that," Andaril said.

"Well," she said, swinging her legs around from the wall and moving herself into a seated position, facing towards Andaril. "Like I said, I haven't got a clue. Now that I've told you all that I know, what's the deal?"

"As I said, I'm your new superior officer," Andaril said. "That means you answer to me."

"Uh, no," she returned. "Sorry, I answer to one person and one person alone." She pointed at herself with her fore-finger.

"That will change," Andaril returned. "Otherwise, things will get very difficult for you. Of that you can be sure. Now, what will it be?"

The woman looked up at the Night Elf, taller than her - though she was slightly above average at five feet and eight inches - and markedly much more muscular. Those bear-claws certainly seemed dangerous enough, and with as long arms as he had, they might get to her before she could find a mark in his bare chest. Not that she had any weapon on her, as those had been confiscated back when she was captured. Nevertheless, she did have another plan in mind, one that would only require minimal cooperation with this Night Elf.

"Fine, whatever," she said. "I'll go with you. But don't expect me to like it."

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," Andaril grumbled. He hadn't known such insolence in anyone in millennia.

At the request from Andaril, the guard unlocked the woman's cell. She slowly made her way out and followed Andaril up and out of the barracks. From here he led her to the quartermaster, a Dwarf named Brevin. Since the woman had lost all of her things when she had been captured in Stormwind and none of them had been brought with her when she came north, she would have to be resupplied here. She chose for herself leather armor, light of weight and sturdy, and a fur-lined cloak to keep out the cold. For her weapons, she took two daggers and a short sword. For their food supplies, Andaril had a leather bag tied across his shoulder, which he would cast off when he shape-shifted. To this he added four crusty flatbread loaves wrapped in cloth. With this done, they went to Stablemaster Reese and acquired a horse for the woman to ride.

"What about you?" the woman asked. "Do you have a horse or are you going to walk on behind me?"

"I will be born by no beast, willing or no," Andaril replied. "I walk a different path." With that, he was suddenly engulfed in emerald light: not the burning fire of the fel, but a soft, glowing light, similar to the effervescence of the moons. When the light faded, there stood instead a large silver buck with massive antlers.

"What the hell!" the woman exclaimed. "I know I heard you were strange, but this is _really_ strange!"

"Have you never seen a druid before?" the voice of Andaril came from the deer's mouth.

"Not at all," she returned.

The deer chuckled. "You're in for quite a surprise with me, then."

"I'd say," she stated.

With that, the deer took off south and the woman urged her horse after it. She began to have doubts about her initial plan; already it seemed that life in Stormwind was small compared to the glimpse of what she had just seen in this Night Elf. Her curiosity was getting the better of her desire to be free and on her own.

* * *

They rode south, towards the smoke pillars of the Ember Clutch. Once they reached the edge of the smoldering forest, the woman tied off her horse to the nearest tree. Andaril transformed from a deer into his bear form, while the woman stood behind him, taking out her daggers and looking this way and that.

"Stay close, woman," Andaril said. "It's dangerous out here; don't need you getting killed on my watch."

"I can take care of myself, you know," the woman retorted. "And my name is Flor."

"Floor?" he asked. "Like the floor of a hunter's hall? And you say Elven names are strange!"

"It's short for Florenica," she replied.

"Very well, Florenica," the bear said. "Your overconfidence is something we'll have to address."

"Why?" she returned.

"You're my subordinate," Andaril stated. "I can't have you taking unnecessary risks just to stroke your ego."

"My ego?!" Florenica exclaimed.

"Yes, your ego," Andaril returned. "Don't balk, even Night Elves are not immune to pride."

"You don't say," she snapped.

"It was our pride that brought about the Sundering," Andaril began. "We believed that magic could be used frivolously, that we were the masters of the world, and that nothing our minds could conceive was or should be withheld from us: and the world paid the price for it, as did our whole race."

"I don't need a sermon from some tree-fucking bear," Florenica retorted. "Especially a man of your species. Don't your kind sleep for thousands of years and let the women do all the work?"

Andaril turned about with frightening quickness and let out a fierce, loud roar. Florenica was thrown off her feet in surprise, her horse - several yards away - neighed in fright and reared up on its hind legs, and birds in the trees took wing instantly.

"What we did was no less or more important than what the Sentinels did!" Andaril retorted. "They protected the waking world while we tended the Emerald Dream, healing the land of the hurts caused by the War of the Ancients. How dare you mortals presume to teach _us!_ Your own kind have much to answer for: it was Medivh, a human wizard, who brought the Orcs to this world, the same Orcs who destroyed Stormwind, ravaged Lordaeron, killed Cenarius, and continue to burn our forests. It was Kel'thuzad, a human wizard, who founded the Cult of the Damned, the captains of the very Scourge we fight here in Northrend, and who, as I am told, opened again the doors of this world to the Burning Legion!"

"Alright, I get it!" Florenica returned. "Humans have done bad things too! Fuck! Shout next time; I don't think they heard you in Orgrimmar! I'm just saying you shouldn't talk about how I need to watch my step. I can take care of myself, you know."

"You keep saying that," Andaril said.

"It's true!" she retorted. "No family, no friends, I kind of have to."

"Not anymore," Andaril retorted. "For as long as you're my charge, you are now part of a team and must act as such."

"I don't work well with people," Florenica aloofly replied, crossing her arms.

"Neither do I," Andaril said. "And if it were up to me, you'd be someone else's problem. But you're my problem, so we're both going to have to deal with it, alright?" Florenica shrugged defiantly, and he groaned.

"You don't think I can take care of myself?" Florenica asked at length.

"Experience says otherwise," the Elf-bear replied.

"Uh-huh," Florenica sarcastically stated. "Yeah, sure. And how does _that_ work with you not working well with other people?"

"It's a long story," he said. "Suffice it to say, I've seen brave warriors boast of what they would do in a battle, only to be the first to fall without bloodying their blades. Talk won't get anywhere with me, only results."

"Oh, you'll see results," Florenica defiantly retorted.

"Stay on your guard, then," Andaril said. "This burned ruin may seem abandoned, but vrykul and proto-drakes are still to be found here."

The bear strode forward slowly, sniffing the air warily as it turned its massive head this way and that. Behind him, Florenica rolled her eyes, drew her knives, and strode forward. She was going to prove to this Elf just how much she could take care of herself. Suddenly there was heard the roaring of some creature among the ashen tree trunks. Florenica swallowed, but forced herself from moving back, as was her wont. Usually larger enemies, or the threat of one, was enough to send her into hiding or to a better vantage point where she could examine her enemy's weaknesses and get the drop on them. But she wasn't exactly happy with her recent words with the Night Elf and wanted to prove him wrong.

Again she heard the noise. Out from between the trees came three small proto-drake whelps. Of dragonkin they were, yet misshapen with large bodies and stubby, useless forearms. Florenica chuckled: these were certainly strange, but they were only small creatures. She had faced things the size of dogs before, and if these could fly, she could throw a knife with as much lethal accuracy as she could stab. They attacked together, giving her no chance to take them out one by one. She rolled forward as they breathed small jets of flame down upon her, then quickly got back onto her feet. She reached up and delivered a quick stab into the back of one of the whelps: their scales were not yet as hardened or impervious as those of their mature variations. Another one swooped in on the left with its talons and she ducked aside, jabbing her second knife into its belly, striking the heart and sending it falling to the ground. The first one hadn't been critically damaged and was trying to make an escape while the third lunged at her from the right side. A swift roundhouse kick pushed it aside long enough for Florenica to slice at it with her knife. But it fluttered out of reach and roared at her, shooting a small stream of fire toward her. She stepped aside, then noticed the last one fleeing for its life. Quickly she threw one of her knives at the fleeing whelp, striking it in the shoulder, digging deep into the tendons that moved its right wing: the whelp fell to the ground, unable to continue flying. The third one lunged at Florenica, who fought it off with her arm while the other knife stabbed furiously at the whelp's general direction, trying to fend it off from her. The whelp bit at her hand, taking the knife in and impaling its throat upon the blade: the whelp's teeth were sharp and dug into her glove, piercing through to the flesh. But so great was the rush of the battle that she did not register that she had taken a wound.

With the last whelp bleeding out from the mouth, Florenica pulled out her dagger, then walked over to the second whelp, who had been pinned by her thrown dagger. She took the knife out of its wing and drove it down into its head, ending its life. She then looked back at Andaril, who was still in bear form, standing behind her; he hadn't moved in her entire battle. Frustration at his inaction was dismissed by the pride that she had proven him wrong: she could take care of herself. She let out a defiant chuckle, then heard a cry in some forgotten language. As she turned about to look at it, the color drained and her smile fled from her face. Two men, each of them at least fifteen feet tall, came lumbering out from the trees: mountains of muscle and flowing beards they were, clad in thick furs of massive creatures. One bore no weapon at all, and the other bore an ax whose staff was large enough that Florenica surmised it had been made out of one single tree.

The unarmed one charged at her first, and she threw her knife at him. It struck into his shoulder, but he seemed little affected by the blow. Instead, he plowed into her, like a charging bull, and knocked her clean off her feet and down to the ground face up. She tried to get up, but the giant placed one foot upon her stomach that pinned her down; she was unable to move. She could feel the ground shaking as the second one arrived, axe in hand, ready for the killing blow. Just then, the massive bear came and lunged at the first giant, biting its leg and swatting at the other with his paw. Florenica was freed and she leaped up to throw her second knife at the oncoming one with the axe. The knife dug into the staff of the axe but didn't hit her foe. Thinking fast, she took out her sword and rolled forward as the giant came down with a wing of the ax to take her head off. She was now standing directly between its great legs, and she drove her sword into the hind portion of the left leg. The giant let out an ear-piercing roar and brought down a massive fist that knocked all of the wind out of Florenica once it hit her. She took a breath in and rolled away as the giant's right foot came down where she had laid just a moment ago.

Her sword was still in the giant's leg, and her last knife was buried in the shaft of its axe. Quickly she ran towards the giant's left leg, using her impaled sword as a spring-board to kick off and up, where she took hold of the axe-shaft. No sooner had she seized her knife but the giant took one hand off the axe-haft and took her in his hand, forcing her to release her grip on the axe. She drove the knife into the giant's hand, who promptly dropped her. But the giant had had enough, and brought his axe down blade first to split her in twain. Florenica barely had any time to roll out of the way before the axe-head struck the ground and was buried in it. The bear returned and attacked the second giant, who angrily fought it off, swinging this way and that with his great arms. One struck Florenica hard in the chest and she went flying back and fell onto the ground, straight onto a small rock that was hiding just below the soil. She let out a loud cry and for a while was too sore and pained to move. Moments passed and then the sounds of battle were no more. Andaril appeared again, this time in his Elven form, offering a hand to Florenica; she refused and got up herself to spite him.

"You can fight, that's for certain," he said. "But you needn't rely only on yourself."

"I didn't need your help," Florenica retorted, ignoring what had happened throughout the battle.

"From here, that didn't seem true," Andaril commented. Florenica punched him in the shin; he was made of harder stuff than she had imagined and her hand recoiled from the blow as though it had hurt her more than it had hurt him.

"Ow!" Andaril exclaimed. "What was that for?"

"You mocked me!" Florenica retorted. "I don't have to take this from some woman-hating druid, not when I'm of..." Suddenly she stopped herself short.

"Yes?"

"Nothing!" she snapped.

"If you say so," Andaril sighed. "But I suggest you learn this quickly: you're not in Stormwind anymore, this is Northrend. Posturing might work for you on the streets, but out here in the wild, you'll end up dead as a result."

"Isn't that what you and the Stormwind guards want of me..." Florenica snapped, but Andaril continued without acknowledging her crass.

"I'd say the same thing to you were you a man," Andaril retorted. "Nonetheless, we have a job to do. You can work with me or fight me every step of the way; the choice is yours."

Florenica balked, taken aback by the bluntness of Andaril. There hadn't been any such men in her life: strong, authoritative and knowledgeable. Most of those who she had met were all talk and came up woefully short. Her pride was wounded more than her body, which caused her to respond with anger, as was her wont. Nonetheless, in her mind she was painfully aware that the druid had a point. She was not truly ready for fighting up here in the north, if these vrykul were any indication of the dangers she'd be facing up here.

She let out a slow sigh. "Fine. I'll work with you."

* * *

The next several hours were spent moving through the woods, driving out the whelps and vrykul as they could find them. Andaril went first, attacking any of the vrykul head on, taking their attention away from the smaller, less-armored Florenica. She would either throw knives or hide behind the terrain and strike from behind, using the knives she had recovered from the first two vrykul as well as her sword. Little by little, they began to find their rhythm with fighting together rather than against each other. But it was less of the fighting that amazed both of them as what was going on in their respective heads when the fighting ceased for a time.

Andaril noticed ever and anon that she seemed quite visibly shaken by the cindered and blackened trees of the Ember Clutch. This and her outburst earlier made him wonder just who she was and why she had been sent up north. As for Florenica, aside from her own surprise at being with someone like Andaril, she had many questions about him that were building with each passing moment. There were not many Night Elves in Stormwind, and those she had seen were women and even then they were rarely seen out during the day apart from the harbor. More than this, she became distinctly aware that there was something not so safe about the massive Night Elf, even when he was in his elven form. Perhaps it was his eyes that glowed like silver starlight, or the power that he seemed to have which seemed a light thing for him.

Ever and anon, as they walked through the burned remains, Andaril would turn into his elven form and kneel down in a place where there was nothing but ash and charred wood. A few times she had managed to creep up on him from behind and observe what he was doing. He would produce from his satchel a small acorn marked with a softly-glowing rune, and, digging a small hole in the ash and frozen ground, plant the acorn in the soil; then he would cover it over with dirt and ash, softly chanting words in the Darnassian tongue, the language of the Night Elves which she knew not. After each planting, Florenica noticed a strange sensation around the immediate area: a sense of revivification and enrichment. The air was warmer, cleaner and smelled of moss drenched in rain and the gnarled oaks of Elwynn Forest; it smelled of home and made her smile.

"Get a hold of yourself," she sighed. "He's just planting nuts: what's so special about that?"

Yet despite her attempt to bring herself back to reality, she could not shake the sense of wonder and mystery every time Andaril buried an acorn in the earth. Considering the amount of time he took with each and every one, she figured that this meant much to him, more so than fighting the vrykul and the whelps.

"Is that all you druids do?" she asked Andaril. "Just plant trees?"

"Druids do much more than simply plant trees," Andaril replied. "We protect the lands from those who defile it. We mend the hurts of the world caused by things heedless and uncaring for the wilds." He sighed. "While we yet have the time."

"What do you mean by that?" Florenica asked. "I thought Elves were immortal."

"We _were_ immortal," Andaril began. "When the Legion returned, what you humans called the Third War, we surrendered our immortality to Nordrassil to destroy Archimonde and drive the demons from our world. Now, while we are still long-lived, we will wither and die in time."

"Hmm!" Florenica muttered, her eyebrows raising in pleasant surprise at this revelation. "So that means you're in the same boat as the rest of us?"

"A crude metaphor, but nonetheless true," Andaril returned.

"Well you don't have to die, you know," she stated.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What, Night Elves don't fuck?" Florenica asked. "I've seen your women, they're gorgeous, if I do say so myself. And you're, well..." She curled her lower lip into her mouth as she took another look at his toned, purple chest and his muscled arms. "Are all Night Elf men so...um...well, showy?"

"'Showy?'"

"You know," Florenica stammered. "They don't wear anything...I-I mean, they don't wear a lot; but that's not the point! Why aren't there any Night Elf children? I've seen human children, Dwarf children, a few Draenei children; I even saw a baby Gnome once. Why aren't your people getting busy, especially now that you're mortal? I think that'd be an incentive to fuck, wouldn't you?"

"We don't talk about it much," Andaril sighed. "Especially with...well, outsiders."

Florenica scoffed. It made her feel vindicated, to make this Night Elf druid feel uncomfortable after he had shown her up. "Why, can't you reproduce?"

Andaril frowned and closed his eyes, as in great pain. Her mocking expression faded in the quiet of the late morning.

"Look, I didn't know it was a sore subject," she said at last, her tone less aggressive. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine."

"Maybe some other time," Andaril said. "Right now, I have something for you to do."

"Sure," Florenica stated. "What is it?"

"The Forsaken have a hold to the east of here, called New Agamand," the Elf returned. "I have a strong feeling that they might be behind the burning here."

"Okay," Florenica nodded. "So how does this involve me?"

The Night Elf walked over to the charred stump of a tree, reached down into a large pile of gray ashes, and pulled out an egg the size of a snap-vine melon that was covered in spikes.

"These eggs have been corrupted," Andaril stated. "I smell the stench of death upon them." He returned the egg to the ash-pile. "There's nothing I can do to save them. But these eggs and this blaze, they might have been caused by the Forsaken. I will remain here and continue to heal the land and drive out those who would do harm to Westguard Keep. For you, I have an important task: one that, if you succeed, will prove your worth and earn my trust."

"What's the task?" she asked.

"Infiltrate New Agamand and find out if they were involved with the blaze," Andaril said. "A dangerous task, to say the least..."

"I'm not afraid of danger," Florenica returned. "Or the Forsaken. I'll find out everything you want to know."

"Be careful," Andaril said. "And don't think about running away, either: because if they find you out, they won't be as benevolent as I have been."

Florenica let out a soft chuckle, then paused as she remembered something. "Hey, what do I call you, anyway? When I get back and come here, how am I going to address you?"

"Me?" the Elf asked. "My name is Andaril Forestsong."

Florenica chuckled louder. For a seven-foot tall, muscular Night Elf with a long leafy-green beard, having a surname like Forestsong seemed absurd in her mind. She was nevertheless surprised that she had been given an apparently important task. She was still technically a prisoner, and there would be little to stop her from running away; less than if she was constantly being watched by this night elf. But from a professional viewpoint, she wasn't afraid of the challenge of this mission. She knew the base gutter-talk of the Forsaken, having spent most of her adult life in the streets of Stormwind, and so could learn more of what these Forsaken at New Agamand were up to (did the elf know that?). Furthermore, she had quite a bit of experience in dangerous tasks such as these, infiltrating and learning secrets without being detected. She was at a conflict of interests: on the one hand, personal freedom would have her desert; while on the other hand, her desire to prove her worth and competence urged her to carry out this mission.

* * *

On foot Florenica made her way eastward, leaving the burning forest and coming out again into the bare uplands. There were trees here, but they were scattered here and there. She swiftly flitted between the trees, keeping her eyes open for anything, eager to not be taken by surprise again. All that was in the sky was a bird of some kind, flitting between the trees: she paid it no mind.

At last she saw a circular valley in which was built a small town full of ramshackle buildings with rakish angles and heavy with the stench of death; columns of green smoke rose from the buildings. Florenica guessed that she was at the right place. She could hear harsh voices speaking in the gutter-speak common to the unscrupulous corners of the Eastern Kingdoms, but was still too far away to guess what was being said. Over to the lip of the hill overlooking the town she came, keeping low and trying not to make a sound. She looked this way and that, making sure the guards were not looking in her direction, before making a move. A large vat of some green liquid was giving off the steam at regular intervals, making a loud hiss with each release. Florenica waited until the exhaust opened, then slid down the hill under the cover of steam hiss and hurried over to hide behind a tall building.

The stench of rotting flesh and alchemical ingredients was overwhelming. Florenica was used to the fumes of boiling reagents, but the miasma of putrid skin and decaying muscle that hung thickly about anywhere the Forsaken went was oppressive. Worse yet, she couldn't vomit or retch or make any sound, otherwise she would give away her position. Instead, she screwed up her face, breathing quietly out of her mouth, as she made her way closer toward the sound of two Forsaken. They were near at hand and their words could be heard.

"...more of a nuisance than anything," one said.

"They burned the clutch we had been testing on," the other commented. "I don't think you appreciate just how much of a threat those vrykul pose to us."

"Bah!" the first one stated. "Once this stuff is done, none will oppose the Forsaken; no matter how big they are."

"We better see to it," the second one said. "If all goes to plan, we will be facing some very _big_ opposition from all sides very soon."

Florenica's eyes welled up, and she stuffed her hand into her mouth to keep from making a sound. The Forsaken seemed to have no part in the blaze that claimed the Ember Clutch. But it seemed that there was something worse the Forsaken were planning beyond a simple blaze. She had to get back and tell Andaril as soon as possible.

Getting in was one thing, but the harder part would be getting back out: a challenge much to her liking. She couldn't make it up the same way she went back, as the steam release from the large vat of whatever they were brewing could mask a swift slide down a gravely embankment, but not a climb up the same loose rocks. She looked up and saw that the tall building behind which she hid was close to a dying tree on top side of the hill. If she had any rope, she could likely cast a line onto one of those branches, pull it tight, and swing back to safety. A climb up there wasn't a problem for her: she was thin and skilled at climbing, even if she only had her knives with her. The real problem was rope, as she had none.

Quickly she looked about for something she could use for a rope, but there was nothing behind the building for her to use; there might be something on the other side of the building, right in plain sight. Swallowing hard, she peeked behind the corner to the right of where she hid. Between the building side and the large vat, she saw a table where the two Forsaken were busy tearing apart a corpse whose head was hidden by a shroud and secured about the neck by a noose. If she could get her hands on that noose, she might make it serve her purpose: but it was over there and there were hostiles nearby. She had an idea, but implementing it meant she would have to move swiftly.

Picking up a few rocks from the side of the hill, she threw one far to the right, towards the inward side of the camp. Florenica's heart skipped a beat and she held her breath as the stone went whizzing through the air. Then the clatter as it hit the ground. She could hear the shuffling of those near at hand, but they didn't make any sound louder than hissing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she heard one pair of footsteps leading away from the table: only one of them had taken the bait. It wouldn't be long now before he came back, if the other one hadn't found her first. She would have to improvise, even if it meant likely sounding the alarm. If it worked, she'd be out of here before they found her. If it didn't, then she wouldn't be the problem of Andaril Forestsong or the Stormwind guard anymore.

There was a rather bizarre fencing technique that the duel-master of Ravenholdt had taught her, and she found herself able to use it this time. She had used it only three times before and it worked twice: it might work a third time. Swiftly she removed the pommel from her short sword, then quickly made her way to the second Forsaken alchemist. Aiming small and hoping to luck, she threw the pommel at the Forsaken's head: the steel pommel clocked him in the head, dazing him for a brief moment. In a moment, Florenica was upon him, using the blade of her sword to sever the head from the body of her target. Rotten flesh and old bones cracked and shattered easily and she held the fetid corpse, keeping it steady rather than letting it fall to the ground. She hid the body beneath the table, then took the rope off the neck of the corpse on the table. A morbid thought entered her head, of replacing the corpse with the dead Forsaken; but it was pointless. The Forsaken didn't have the same respect for the dead as the living had, and if she wasted the time, she'd likely be caught.

Picking up her pommel and placing the noose around her arm, she ran back behind the tall building and began her ascent. She had only made it up half-way when she heard a bell ringing somewhere in the camp: the jig was up. She now had to make it back or die trying, there was no other way. At last she came to the roof of the structure, where she crouched low, hoping to keep out of sight. She unwrapped the noose and made a slipknot from it, such that would tighten when pulled against resistance. Once she had it, she threw the rope out towards the tree, holding tightly to the other end; it hit a very small branch and fell off without being secured. Time was running out. She pulled the rope back and threw the knot out again, which failed to catch a second time. She swore under her breath and, pulling the rope back in, threw it out again.

It landed upon a substantial branch; she pulled the rope until it went taut, then, taking in her hands, leaped off the roof at a swing. She came down to the other side and let go of the rope, falling no more than a foot or two down to the ground. Then she took off as fast as her legs could carry her, back to the nearest, large tree for cover. Once behind cover, she looked back to see if she was being followed: to her knowledge, she couldn't see anything. She breathed a sigh of relief, then made her way back west, keeping always to the trees or large boulders as she could find them.

An hour or two passed and Florenica continued going west, following the smoke signal of the fires at Ember Clutch. As she came upon the burned remains of the trees, she noticed that Andaril wasn't immediately there to be found. She entertained the idea of running away, since it seemed that he had forsaken her; she might as well leave him as well. But she had come all this way and succeeded in her mission: in her mind, she deserved the right to brag about her success.

"Andaril!" she cried out. "Forestsong, where are you?"

There was no immediate answer. She called out his given name twice more, but was met with the silence. Suddenly she heard a hiss near at hand. She looked about and saw nothing, and called out to him again.

"Shh!" a voice audibly hissed.

"Did you just shush me?" Florenica retorted. "How dare you shush m..."

But she had no more time to retort, for faster than she could argue, the Night Elf emerged from the trees and covered her mouth with his hand.

"This land is dangerous!" he said in a hushed voice. "The vrykul are still about, and you stirred up the hornet's nest at New Agamand. It's not wise to be so loud." He removed his hand from her mouth, and she turned and reached up to slap him, but she couldn't reach his face over a foot and a half over her own head.

"How dare you shush me!" she repeated.

"Is your pride more important than our safety?" Andaril asked. "And you say we have egos!"

Florenica was flabbergasted. His words cut her to the quick, calling her out for her weakest point: her pride.

"Fine then!" she retorted. "You want to be an ass? I won't tell you what I found out at New Agamand."

"Perhaps it would be preferable," Andaril said quietly. "If you had something to bargain with before setting an ultimatum."

"What?" Florenica asked.

"I followed you from a distance," the Elf said. "My planting was complete and I followed you from above."

"The bird?" she asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "And while I can't speak the language of the Forsaken, I surmised that they were up to something. This won't sit well with our superiors at Westguard Keep."

"Maybe you'd like to know just _what_ they said?" Florenica asked. "I know, but I'm not going to tell you."

"Suit yourself, then," Andaril returned. "We return to the keep in three days time. You may find that the wilds of Northrend might not agree with you."

"What are you talking about?" Florenica asked. "Are you going to leave me out here in the wilderness to die?"

"Hardly," he returned. "But I have much to do out here, and I do most of my work at night. Doubtless you will be wanting to sleep during the night. There's nothing I can do for you in this regard, except provide you with a guardian while I'm away." Andaril stroked his chin pensively.

"Yes, Faewing will help," he muttered softly. He then turned to the human. "She might take some getting used to, though, I warn you."

Florenica sighed. It looked like she had a long three days ahead of her. Nevertheless she was determined to keep her pride intact and refuse to tell him what she had heard out of spite.

* * *

 **(AN: I did something for this trilogy which I haven't done since _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ : I actually made an outline. There's a lot of stuff that's going to happen, and I want it all to happen naturally and in a proper accordance. And this being another HUGE undertaking, I thought I'd write it down.)**

 **(This chapter went into some depth with vague hints about the past of the Night Elves and gets us into Florenica from _I'll Be Home for Winter's Veil_ [my vision for stealth is that, unless one has an invisibility spell, a Rogue does NOT turn invisible when they use stealth], as well as my retort for one of the stupidest reasons the fandom hates Malfurion Stormrage. I am seriously baffled at why people hate him: if it's really because of that one line from the Well of Eternity dungeon during _Cataclysm_ , then that brings my estimation of the _World of Warcraft_ fandom to a whole new low. Also, I'm of a mind that his "cries" in the quest-line in Val'sharah named for a _Metallica_ song from their Death Magnetic album were NOT actually him speaking, but Xavius taunting Tyrande with her worst fear [i evaded the cliche of "worst nightmare"], which was hearing her love in pain and unable to find him.)  
**


	4. Something Rotten

**(AN: If you thought the author's note from the last chapter was "rant-filled", just you wait. Here I finally get to provide an answer to the "gotcha" argument of the Garrosh fanboys: that Stonetalon Mountains redeems Garrosh of all past, present, and future evils. The short version of my answer is this: where are the druids responding to his devastation of Ashenvale, especially the Horde ones?)**

* * *

 **Something Rotten**

Umbakka was busy at his pot. Many powerful and useful potions were to be made for the Horde Expedition, and he had been busy for the past three days since the arrival in the Borean Tundra. The demand was greater than he could supply all by himself, and would often outsource the gathering of reagents to those soldiers whom he could persuade with gold or other useful items. As a witch-doctor, he had procured many useful things in his time: from the days on the islands to the march through Kalimdor with Thrall, then again back east to Stranglethorn Vale and Tirisfal. But gold and trinkets were not the only useful things that Umbakka peddled.

The old troll was crafty, and listened more than he spoke. He learned many things that could be useful to many people: important things, dangerous things, secret things. He could turn quite a profit from the eager goblins of Ratchet or Gadgetzan with the information he had. Of course he rarely gave his information freely, knowing the value of it and what it could cost. For instance, he had learned that some of the warriors of the Horde who had ventured into Zul'gurub had intentionally infected their beasts with the Blood Plague, and therefore spread the devastating plague not only among the Horde but the Alliance as well.

But today, Umbakka's primary concern was the concoction he was making. He was in desperate need of some mucilagenous to thicken the brew, but none of the plants he had been experimenting with had given him much success. Murloc eyes would do well, but he knew of none in the immediate area. The closest substitute were the gorlocs in the steam pools to the east. But Umbakka was old, thin, and not a warrior: perhaps in his younger days, full of blood rage, he could have torn the heads off a few gorlocs and taken their eyes. But the past was the past, and the years hadn't been kind to him. Surely he could find someone who would wrangle up some gorloc eyes for his purposes.

While he was working, the noise of shouting was heard from the troop quarters nearby. It wasn't uncommon for fights to break out among the soldiers of the Horde, especially now that the Blood Elves had joined them. Umbakka spat on the ground at the thought of the effeminate, arrogant elves. It had been bad enough when the undead, abominations against all living things, joined the Horde, but now it seemed that there were elves all over the place wherever the Horde went. The trolls once ruled the land of the Eastern Kingdoms, before the Elves and humans drove them into the forests and jungles: none of the trolls forgot this injustice.

The shouting grew louder, and Umbakka craned his long, clever ears that way. To his amazement, it had nothing to do with Elves, but the Orcs instead. He respected them: they honored their ancestors, even as the trolls did, and worshiped the Loa under different names. Presently, the commotion spilled out into the mess hall, where the old troll was brewing his concoction. A crowd of Orcs were gathered around two who seemed to be at odds with each other, both of them being kept apart by Gol'og, the captain of the Orgrimmar company. Umbakka knew and respected the old Orc, and was intent on hearing what had caused the veteran to intervene.

"Enough!" Gol'og roared. "The mockery of the Alliance will be our due with all of this petty bickering!"

"He started it!" an Orcish woman with three long braids shouted, pointing to a bald male who was wagging his tongue at her. "I only intended to finish what he started!"

"Me like how you think!" the male replied with a grin.

"Master yourselves!" Gol'og stated. "Both of you! We are not savages!"

"How quaint!" a Blood Elf male commented in passing. One of the Orcs around the commotion punched him in the face, and he cowered away whimpering and in tears.

"He tried to have his way with me!" the Orc woman said.

"Me want fuck, me take fuck," the male replied. "That Orc way."

"What?!" Gol'og roared. "You would insult your shield-sister's honor by making her _wachook_?" His large fist came down upon the bald Orc, laying him out on the floor.

"You're taking her side on this?" another Orc asked. "What if she's lying?"

"You dare insult my honor, Kron'gar?" the woman retorted.

"No more!" Gol'og shouted. He slammed the pommel of his great-axe into the floor, bringing silence to the crowd around him. "You, Drug, act like we've already won the war! This is a barracks, not a brothel! You can fuck when we've won; if you can't wait until then, you can sleep in the pig styes!" He looked at the others. "There'll be no more of this demon's talk. Might without honor is savagery; that is not the way of the Warchief!"

"Fuck the Warchief!" another Orc shouted. "We are Orcs, we take what we want, when we want, and don't ask sorry for nothing!" Several cries of agreement came from those around. Gol'og saw that only Kron'gar and the woman who had opposed Drug, the bald one, were not cheering.

"Keep this up," Gol'og stated. "And the Overlord will hear of this."

"Why should he care?" the one who had defied the Warchief asked. "Hellscream brings victory, Warchief makes Orcs weak, timid, passive."

"Then you'll answer to Saurfang!" Gol'og retorted. "And he's not as patient as I am." All fell silent at the mention of Saurfang. Gol'og grunted in disgust at them, then he turned to Kron'gar. "Bo'dakh is an Orc of her word, as are you. Challenge her at your own risk."

"I have no interest in _mak'gorah_ ," Kron'gar returned.

Gol'og grunted, then turned to the others. "What are you all gawking at? Back to your own business, all of you!" The crowds began to disperse, each going about their own way.

Meanwhile, Umbakka had been listening to the entire conversation. He grinned, shook his head, and continued stirring his stew. A week had passed since the Ogrimmar company had arrived at Warsong Hold, and their progress had been slow. The tundra was bare and lifeless; supplies and tempers were all low among the many battalions. The Horde had nevertheless pushed forward from victory to victory, with Overlord Hellscream becoming something of a hero to the soldiers. His brutal, ruthless rule favored strength and martial prowess, but also reinforced the idea of might makes right that the younger Orcs held as truth, making him immensely popular among them. For himself, Umbakka stayed out of the way of the overlord, as he was known to have quite the temper.

Just then, the large Orc Kron'gar walked past where old Umbakka was at his pot.

"There you are, old troll!" Kron'gar greeted. "How's that potion coming along?"

"It be comin' in due time, mon," Umbakka replied. "Meanwhile, ol' Umbakka gotta job for ya, if ye be up to da challenge."

"Always," the Orc replied. "What do you need now?"

"Da gorlocs in da pools to da east," Umbakka began. "Dare eyeballs be jus' what I need for mah brew. I be makin' potions an' hexes for da Offensive an' I be needin' sometin' thick for da pot. Da eyes work jus' fine."

"Excellent!" Kron'gar cheered. "I've been itching for a real hunt lately."

"Good, good," Umbakka smiled. "Ye be da right one for da job, mon. Bring me six o' dem gorloc eyes and I be rewardin' ye for ya troubles."

At that moment, the troll noticed someone speaking to a messenger near the entrance of the mess hall. He noticed that a large Orc was speaking to someone in a hood and cloak, whose whole features were obscured. The Orc went on his way towards the stables, and Umbakka wondered if there was something he should be hearing at this point.

"Tel'jirza!" he called out to his assistant, a buxom troll woman with green hair who was braising a pig on the spit. "Watch me pot till I get back."

"You be careful, mon," she returned.

Umbakka grinned as he left. Tel'jirza had been among several younger members of the Darkspear Tribe who had shown an interest in learning the ways of the Loa spirits under Sen'jin of old, who was like a father to their people. After Sen'jin's death, Tel'jirza and her companion continued their training with various other teachers. They were good, but neither of them seemed to be picking up the old ways very easily. While her companion was back in Kalimdor, assisting Zen'tabra with her study on why the Loa seemed to have spoken to their spirit leaders less and less, Tel'jirza had answered the call to arms in Northrend. She did not respond to the old ways as strongly as other students had, and so was given the lesser tasks, as was the case with her companion.

* * *

The stables smelled like excrement of the worst sort. The most rancid, of course, was that of the dire-wolves, the great mounts of the Horde. It was a task that was wholly without honor, and often reserved for the peons. As Umbakka had gleaned from keeping his ears open, the practice of drowning frail and sickly Orcish children had almost completely faded out during the time when the Horde was first formed. The Horde needed strong manual labor in order to run their war machine while the warriors fought, as the Orcs who were bred after their race almost unilaterally accepted the fel matured quickly but were increasingly dull and dim-witted. The class of peons was therefore formed, where the weakest and dishonorable were forced into servile manual labor tasks deemed unfitting of the warriors or warlocks. Though the Horde of Thrall's time had sought to restore the ancient and honorable tribal traditions from before the time of Gul'dan, the peon class was still active in the Horde as a matter of habit.

There was much noise coming from the stables. A Forsaken male was drawling on in a most annoying tone of mockery, coupled with haggard singing that sounded like it had been written by an ogre. Umbakka noted the words, which went something along the lines of this:

 _Sham, what a shame_  
 _Oh shame, what a sham_  
 _He's the weakest of the weak_  
 _He gives the Horde_  
 _A very bad name_  
 _Shame, what a sham_  
 _Oh sham, what a shame_

Again the Forsaken sang his mocking ditty, at which time Umbakka now came within view of the stables. The Forsaken was standing atop a rock and was dumping buckets filled with piss and shit from the latrines and outhouses in the hold onto the head of a large brown Tauren. The old troll could see the rage building up in the Tauren's body, who was not enjoying his time here shoveling shit. Another bucket was dumped on his head and the Forsaken laughed aloud: whether he was smiling or whether his lower jaw was a false one that was permanently bent in a mocking grin, Umbakka could not guess. The Tauren roared and took a swing at the Forsaken, who ducked out of the way, causing the Tauren to lose his balance and fall face first onto the ground. The Forsaken laughed at him and dumped another bucket of waste on the Tauren's head.

"Talen!" the Orc shouted. "You're needed at the hold. Important message for you."

"Important?" the Forsaken asked. "Why couldn't you just give me the message if it was so damn important? I swear, you Orcs have brains the sizes of gnomes!"

"Shut your mouth, whelp, or I'll shut it for you!" the Orc challenged.

"Oh, look, the meat-head threatens me with violence!" Talen retorted. "Well, you won't do that."

"Why not?"

"Same reason shammy here won't touch me," Talen said, dumping another bucket of shit on the Tauren. "He's a fucking mountain of a cow and I'm a zombie; it's the same with you, green boy. If you hit me, then I'll tell the Overlord, who will hold you responsible for bullying someone weaker than you. And trust me, you wouldn't want to get on Hellscream's bad side."

The Orc grumbled angrily. "Should I tell your messenger that you're busy?"

"Messenger?" Talen asked. "You said 'message', not messenger. Why didn't you tell me there's someone waiting for me? You're about as slow as shammy here." He leaped off the boulder and kicked the Tauren for good measure as he approached the Orc. "Tell your messenger that if his message is so important, he can come here and give it to me himself. I'm nobody's lap-dog..."

"Except Malkorok's," the Tauren uttered. "And Hellscream's."

"Zip it, shammy!" Talen retorted. "Before I stuff your mouth full of shit!"

The Orc chuckled. "A clever dick you are!"

"He doesn't have one," the Tauren commented.

"Alright, that's enough!" Talen retorted, turning to the Tauren. "Time for you to eat shit, shammy! Maybe you can pray to the piss to save you, rain-speaking sham!"

"The messenger said you'd give me a hard time," the Orc commented as Talen went for the bucket. "She also said to tell you that her message is Hand of Vengeance business and must be delivered in private."

Umbakka noticed that Talen was moments away from shoving a steaming pile of dung into the Tauren's mouth when he heard those words. He let his prize fall out of his hand and stain the hem of his robe as he turned towards the Orc.

"Why didn't you say that in the first place, you dolt?" he asked. "Lead on, then, good Orc."

The troll noticed the change in behavior of the Forsaken. Whatever was about to be said between him and the messenger might be worth listening in on. He followed after the Orc and the Forsaken, not giving the Tauren a single glance in his direction. Though the Tauren also worshiped the ancestors and the spirits, and this particular one was known to Umbakka, he, like the others, was unsympathetic towards him. He was slow and dull and, generally considered, to be useless. If Hellscream had made him a dung-monger, then he had made his bed and it was his task to lie in it. Dishonor and cowardice is as dishonor and cowardice does, so was the phrase.

Following on from the shadows, Umbakka came to a place in the quarry just outside of the Hold. Here he saw the hooded figure waiting for them, the hood turning this way and that. As they approached, Umbakka hid behind an iron buttress that extended out from the hold as a support. From here he heard what was spoken between them as the Orc was dismissed from his duty. The two seemed to believe they were alone and so spoke: Umbakka recognized Talen's voice, but the other was a female's voice, or at least such as passed for female among the Forsaken.

"What business is so important," Talen whined. "That you interrupt me?"

"I didn't know tormenting others was so entertaining for you," the woman replied.

"It _is_ fun!" Talen retorted. "Mocking that big oaf, making his life miserable: it's the only joy I can find in this life, as you well know. Besides, who are you to judge me for what I do as sport? Aren't you the baby-eating assassin?"

"Enough talk," the assassin interjected. "I didn't spend three days on the back of a turtle just to argue with some b*tch. The Royal Apothecary Society needs you back at Vengeance Landing. There have been some...problems with the field-tests."

Umbakka's breath caught. He had been in Tirisfal Glades during the assault on Naxxramas and heard about a plague that the Royal Apothecary Society of the Forsaken were brewing in the north: some kind of weapon they could use both on the Scourge and their living enemy, the Scarlet Crusade. As he knew that the leader of the Forsaken was an Elf, albeit a dead one, he was certain that she had an ulterior motive for this weapon that was being constructed. What they were talking about sounded like it could be just that weapon.

"And what does the Royal Apothecary Society need with a priest of the Cult of Forgotten Shadows?" Talen asked. "I'm not an alchemist, I'm a scientist of darkness."

"I'm sure they'll put you to some use," the assassin replied. "Now get your things together, we're leaving as soon as you're ready."

"I'm amazed the Dark Lady trusts you with such an important mission," Talen stated. "After you lost the Crown in Lordaeron."

Suddenly the assassin pulled out a knife and held its point at Talen's throat, while another hand seized Talen by the short, dank hair on his skull and held his head back, exposing his neck.

"You know, you're not useful enough to be _this_ annoying," the assassin said.

"Please don't kill me!" Talen begged over and over; all the mirth vanished from his voice, replaced instead with fear and trepidation.

"Pathetic," sneered the assassin. "And a coward to boot." There was silence as Talen continued to beg for his life. "No, you're more useful to the Dark Lady and the Hand of Vengeance alive. You better watch your back, or you'll find a knife in it. Is that clear?" Talen nodded furiously. "Now get your shit together on the double: we're leaving."

"Yes, ma'am, understood, ma'am, right away, ma'am," Talen blurted out hastily.

"Now get away from me," the assassin hissed. "You smell like shit."

Umbakka grinned, recalling that Talen had soiled his hands in his mockery of the Tauren shaman he had been tormenting. Despite this, he kept silent and to his hiding place, hoping that he hadn't been spotted. Sentry ward fetishes were often best for keeping an eye on far away things and places, but they could not hear what was being spoken. Umbakka found it much easier to be there in person and hear what was being said. True it was dangerous, but so far he had managed to evade death himself for many years; he hadn't gotten to be this old by being careless.

He listened for their footsteps, so that he would know they were leaving and it was safe for him to return to his stew. But just then he heard the heavy footfalls of Orcish boots not far behind him. Turning thither he saw the Orcish warrior Gar'mosh making his way to the stables. With curiosity getting the better of him, Umbakka followed the Orc back to the stables, keeping just out of sight. He saw the Orc approach the Tauren, who was now back on his feet and shoveling dung as before.

"You disgust me!" Gar'mosh said. "You should have been drowned at birth. Get your ass to the hold: Overlord Hellscream has need of you right now. Hurry, he's in a bad mood!"

The Tauren rose up to his hooves and made his way to the hold; but even as he went, Gar'mosh kicked the back of one of his knees and sent him face down into the dirt. The Orc laughed at this then went on his way, with Umbakka following on behind.

* * *

As they entered the hold, Gar'mosh and the Tauren went up to the war room, where Hellscream and Saurfang were making their plans for war with the Scourge and, as Hellscream hoped, the Alliance as well. Umbakka stayed downstairs and listened; he wouldn't have to listen very intently, for Garrosh Hellscream made such noise that he could be heard in almost every part of the hold whenever he spoke.

"YOU ARE LATE, PUNY TAUREN!" Garrosh Hellscream roared. "PERHAPS SHOVELING SHIT IS ALL YOU'RE GOOD AT, FOR ALL THE TIME YOU WASTED ANSWERING MY ORDERS!"

"My apologies..." the Tauren began; there was the sound of a blow landing.

"APOLOGIES ARE FOR WOMEN AND ALLIANCE SCUM!" Garrosh bellowed. "WE ARE HORDE! WE APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING!"

"Not even the innocents we killed on Draenor?" the voice of Saurfang asked.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, OLD MAN!" Garrosh howled. "A DEAD DOG IS OF MORE WORTH TO ME THAN A FEW DEAD DRAENEI CHILDREN! NOW THEN, COW, STAND ON YOUR FEET LIKE A MAN AND HEAR THE ORDERS OF YOUR OVERLORD!"

"What would you ask of me?" the Tauren asked. There was another sound of a blow landing.

"YOU WILL SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO, ARROGANT LITTLE WHELP!" Garrosh shouted. Tense silence followed. "THE ALLIANCE ARE NOTHING BUT A RACE OF COWARDS! WHILE WE BOLDLY FIGHT AGAINST THE SCOURGE AND THE COLD, THEIR SOLDIERS ARE ABANDONING THEIR POSTS! WE'VE CAPTURED SEVERAL OF THEIR DESERTERS!" At this, the Orc Overlord laughed. "DEATH IS TOO GOOD FOR THESE COWARDS: THEY DESERVE TO GO BACK IN SHAME AND DISHONOR TO THEIR SUPERIORS, LIKE THE DOGS THEY ARE!" He grumbled in frustration, though his tone didn't alter. Umbakka wondered where this Hellscream got the strength to be so angry all of the time: he was young and the son of a proud Orc Chieftain whose strength never left him, even in his middle age, and he was of the Warsong Clan, who were bloodthirsty and savage even without the fel.

"EVERYONE ELSE IS BUSY DOING IMPORTANT TASKS," Garrosh continued. "AND I HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE IF THE ALLIANCE SCUM STAB US IN THE BACK AT THE CROSSROADS EXCHANGE AND KILL YOU! GO NOW AND DELIVER THE COWARDS BACK TO THEIR OWN!" There was silence for a moment, then Umbakka heard Saurfang's voice.

"Warden Bloodfrenzy can outfit you with a flare-gun," said Saurfang. "Once you reach the Crossroads, use it to signal the Alliance to the exchange. Throm'ka, soldier."

The slow, heavy hoof-falls of the Tauren clanged upon the iron steps leading down from the war room. Umbakka was about to leave when he heard Hellscream call for Gar'mosh.

"FOLLOW THAT PUNY COW TO THE CROSSROADS!" Garrosh shouted. "MAKE SURE THE TRANSFER COMES TO BLOWS!"

"Yes, Overlord!" Gar'mosh replied.

"Betraying a truce such as this is without honor," Saurfang said.

"THERE ARE NO TRUCES WITH ALLIANCE SCUM!" Garrosh shouted.

"The Warchief ordered that there be no hostilities with the Alliance until we've dealt with the Scourge," Saurfang added.

"THAT COWARD THRALL ISN'T HERE, I AM!" roared Garrosh. "I DECIDE WHAT ACTION THE HORDE TAKES, I DECIDE WHAT IS LAW, AND I DECIDE WHAT IS OR ISN'T HONORABLE CONDUCT! IS THAT CLEAR?"

"Inciting the Alliance to battle won't end well," Saurfang said. "There will be consequences."

"FUCK CONSEQUENCES!" Garrosh returned. "IF THE ALLIANCE ATTACKS US, IT WILL BE _THEIR_ DOING, NOT OURS! IF THOSE COWARDS CAN'T KEEP THEIR ARMS AT BAY, IT'S THEIR OWN FAULT THAT WE DEFEND OURSELVES FROM THEM!"

Umbakka shook his head. The Horde prided battle as the way of showing honor, though this never made any sense to him. Ask any number of people of the Horde and they would give a different answer for the meaning of honor. How could something that was so essential to the conduct of Orc, Tauren, and Troll, have as many meanings as there were people in the Horde? But whatever honor meant, it was most certainly not honorable conduct to attack an enemy under a flag of truce, as would be happening at the crossroads. Most certainly the Alliance wouldn't tolerate this act of war, and then there would be battle upon the Plains of Nasam with two opponents rather than merely one.

* * *

On the other side of the peninsula, on the eastern shore, the Alliance's Valiance Keep stood defiantly against Warsong Hold, yet secure. Hellscream's fleet had been ransacked by the kvaldir and the Undead Scourge, and so the Alliance had control of the waters around the Tundra, save for the neutral tuskarr village of Unu'pe, which sat a few miles to the east. Yet despite this, the Alliance had made no move on Warsong Hold. The newly returned King Varian Wrynn had reluctantly agreed to the pact with the Orcish Warchief Thrall, that neither the Horde nor the Alliance would engage in hostilities against each other, whether openly or in secret, until the threat of the Scourge had been dealt with. For their part, the Alliance had kept their end of the bargain to a fault.

The Alliance had had their hands full since arriving here in Northrend. While their eastern outpost of Valgarde in the Howling Fjord had been assaulting relentlessly by the vrykul, here in the west they faced greater threats from the Scourge directly. From without the undead Nerubians, insectoid servants of the Lich King, assaulted the base, while there were rumors of activity of the Cult of the Damned within the walls of Valiance Keep. The supply village of Farshire had recently been attacked and plagued by the same plague that had held the kingdoms of Orcs and Humans in a state of panic the last several weeks and months. To the minds of the soldiers, they were walking into the very heart of death itself: the Scourge held sway over all of Northrend and the living did not belong here.

To this end, General Arlos had constructed a tavern for the off-duty soldiers to have some measure of the comforts of home here in the frozen north. It was in this inn that an old warrior sat at a table with some of her companions. Though the warrior was old in age, she was relatively new to the Alliance, having only joined a year or so ago. She was a Draenei, one of the people of Draenor and Argus who had joined the Alliance in the aftermath of the reopening of the Dark Portal. Though she was seated presently, when she stood up she was head and shoulders above everyone except for the males of her own race and the Night Elves. She was blue of skin, with long black hair that went down almost past her waist: a good deal of it was tied back in a bun near the back of her head, with the rest coming to just about the middle of her back. Upon either side of her upper head, just behind the hair-line, two horns extended out and swept backwards along the sides of her head. Four slender tendrils extended in pairs on either side from the back of her jaw, just below her leaf-shaped ears, and fell down to her shoulders; and her eyes were pale blue and glowed with a soft light.

With this particular Draenei were two human soldiers, men of her own company, and a Dwarf with a long gray beard. These were seated at a table, upon which sat the fifth member of their party: a Gnome with bright pink hair. One of the two humans was middle-aged, with thinning dark hair, and the other a younger man with light brown hair.

"...and so I ran the brute through his fat gut," the Draenei said. "And then, as if to rob my victory of its sweetness, the oaf fell on top of me! The others thought I was dead. It was all I could do to crawl out from under him." There was some scattered laughter from the group. "And that was how I slew my first ogre."

"That's an outstanding story!" the little Gnome exclaimed. "I don't think I'd be brave enough to face something three times my size."

"On the contrary," the Draenei returned. " _Mikrei_ are some of the bravest of the Alliance I have ever met."

"Uh, what's a _mikrei_?" the Gnome asked.

"Why, you are!" the Draenei stated, a puzzled expression on her face.

The little Gnome blushed. "Well, I don't know about that..."

"Without a doubt," said the Draenei. "There is little else on your world smaller than you, and yet you go out into the wide world, seeking adventure, glory, and the honor of your people. I've seen what you're up against on the Horde, and they're all much bigger than you!"

"Aye," the Dwarf said. "A stout 'eart is good, but it needs a strong arm t' back it up."

"You should talk," the younger human stated.

"'Ey, watch it, laddie," the Dwarf retorted. "Ye've not enough hair on yer face t' be sharin' words with a man as can out-drink ye. Asides, we're easily thrice as strong as our stature. Any of ye 'eard the tale o' Finn Stouthammer, the Highfather o' the Twilight 'ighlands?"

"Oh, gee!" the little Gnome said, rolling her eyes. "Not this story again."

"'E's the mightiest warrior o' th' Wildhammer Dwarves!" said the Dwarf, as he divulged animatedly into his tale. "'is legend's known from the Aerie Peaks t' Blackrock Mountain. During th' Second War, 'e struck down a full-grown dragon with his storm-'ammer! The earth shakes with 'is footsteps as he walks by, they say."

"And who's they, I wonder?" the Gnome asked. "Your drinking buddies at the ale-house, no less, spinning yarns taller than sailors' stories about the lost continent of Pandaria."

"It's nae fable, ye wee Gnome!" the Dwarf exclaimed. "They say 'e breaths fire from 'is mouth an'..."

"Shoots lightning from his ass?" the young man asked. "And just why would a Bronzebeard be singing the praises of a Wildhammer? Aren't you lot supposed to be at war with each other?"

"Nae, laddie," the Dwarf returned. "But I have'nae time t' tell it to ye proper: if I told ye th' tale o' me people, we'd be sittin' 'ere till you came intae yer own beard!" The Dwarf chuckled. "But as I said, 'ighfather Stouthammer's legend is known throughout all places where Dwarves have walked." The Dwarf lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. "It's even said that, in recognition for 'is bravery and service durin' th' war, nae other than Kudran 'imself gave ol' Stouthammer 'is own beard ring!"

"I hope he washed it first," the Gnome added. This brought laughter from all those at the table, and caused the Dwarf to groan and shake his head.

"There's no 'ope for ye," he sighed. "I cannae share a proper legend without ye bastards criticizin' it like yer a bunch o' 'igh Elves!"

"Oh, come off it, Logan!" the Gnome said. "We're just having fun."

The Dwarf whose name was Logan sighed and drained his mug. The older of the two humans went to the bar to pay his tab, while the younger one began to sway about from what he had imbibed. The Gnome and the Draenei, meanwhile, remained where they were sitting: the tall blue one in her chair and the little pink-haired one on top of the table.

"So have you heard about the news from Fizzcrank Airstrip?" the Gnome asked.

"No I haven't, Zappy," the Draenei returned.

"It's Zippy," the Gnome chuckled. "But what do you think? Is it real? I mean, after what happened in Uldaman; all the things the Explorer's League discovered about our ancestry. Well, the Dwarves and the Gnomes, that is. I'm not sure how your people came about, or if there were even Titans involved on Archaedus...or Argon..."

"Argus," the Draenei corrected.

"Yes, that one," Zippy nodded. "But still, isn't it fascinating? The Explorer's League in the east, and here in the west, these mechanical Gnomes appearing east of the Airstrip. From what I hear, the Explorer's League believes that the Keepers of the Titans might still be here in the upper regions of the north!"

"Aren't we here to fight the undead?" the Draenei asked.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," the Gnome returned. "But think about it! Wouldn't it be wonderful to meet the father of your race? To see the very first one that spawned, birthed, created your whole people. Oh, the things I would ask them!" The Draenei chuckled at the enthusiasm of the little Gnome.

At that moment, a uniformed soldier approached the table. The Draenei rose from her seat and saluted, while the Gnome stood up on the table and saluted.

"Leshara," the soldier said. "The quartermaster has orders from the general. You're to report to her immediately."

"Right away," the Draenei returned. She was in uniform and her swords were lying by the table; centuries of war between the Burning Legion and their servants the Orcs had made her constantly vigilant and ready for battle. She bade farewell to Zippy and threw her a gold coin for her drink before walking out of the tavern.

As the keep was the hub of Alliance activity in the Borean Tundra, there were two quartermasters who gave out the supplies to the commissioned troops. Leshara came to the Logistics Officer, a dark-haired human woman with the surname of Silverstone. The other one, Officer Brighton, was busy at the other end of the base.

"There you are, soldier," Officer Silverstone said. "Are you ready for your assignment?"

"Yes, ma'am," Leshara nodded. Yesterday, a message had arrived from Warsong Hold, stating that deserters captured by the Horde would be returned to Valiance Keep today. Silverstone gave Leshara a length of rope, which she was to use to tie off the deserter and bring them back to the Keep.

"Your...uh, goat is waiting for you at the gates," Silverstone said hesitantly.

"It's called a talbuk," Leshara replied. She was painfully aware that the Blood Elves, and some less tolerant members of the Alliance, referred to the uncorrupted Draenei as "blue goats", and most certainly not in an endearing way.

"It's waiting for you, just the same," Silverstone repeated. "According to the message, the Horde will send up a signal flare to let you know once they've arrived. Your mission is simple: get in, get the deserter, and get out."

"Understood," Leshara nodded.

"One more thing," Silverstone said. "I'm aware that your people have personal history with the Orcs, as does our King. For the present, you're not to engage the Horde or antagonize them in any way. We don't want to start a war on two fronts."

Leshara sighed. There were individual members of the Horde she had met who were not thoroughly detestable, but for the most part they were precisely that, even at their best. The Trolls were savage, violent, and secretive, the Blood Elves had violated the Naaru in Tempest Keep, and the Forsaken were a ruined and terrible form of life: no, rather a mockery of life. As for the Orcs, they had committed genocide against the Draenei in the name of the Burning Legion, and their use of the Legion's fel magic had broken and corrupted Draenor beyond recall.

"I'll do my best," Leshara resigned.

* * *

The day wore on as the small group departed from Warsong Hold. Gar'mosh took the lead, with his shield in one hand and his axe in the other. Behind him walked the Tauren shaman Gar Earthwalker, leading on a rope the deserter, a human male dressed in a thick wolf-skin whose face was pale and gaunt: humans didn't eat raw meat as the Orcs did, and his captors refused to provide him food to his liking. They walked on at a steady pace, in no great hurry. Perhaps Gar'mosh, believing what he had heard, thought that the Tauren couldn't go any faster and so walked slowly.

As they walked, Gar'mosh shivered from the cold. He hadn't grown up on Draenor and so didn't remember the home of the Thunderlord and Frostwolf Clans, the Frostfire Ridge. To him, the only significantly cold region he had been to had been Alterac Valley, which didn't sit with his liking. But here, in the land that the Tauren called the Roof of the World, the cold was much worse. Meanwhile, the Tauren shaman seemed to be enjoying himself for the first time since he had arrived in Northrend. He walked along, humming ancient melodies in the Taurahe language; likely odes to the Earthmother.

Gar'mosh didn't approve.

"Can you shut up?" Gar'mosh roared. "Your idiotic humming bothers me."

"Apologies, good Orc," the Tauren replied. "The spirits in this land are very powerful. They speak to me, lifting my heart as it hasn't been since I walked the Barrens."

"Pathetic," Gar'mosh snarled. "A true warrior's heart is lifted by battle and nothing else."

"As you may have guessed," the Tauren said. "I'm a shaman, not a warrior."

Gar'mosh sighed. "A self-righteous dirt-whisperer."

The Tauren chuckled. "I've been called worse things."

"So I've heard," Gar'mosh stated. "And perhaps you've earned those names? I remember the talk of the other grunts during our campaign in Kalimdor in the Third War. They said quite a few bad things about you."

"And you believed them?" the Tauren asked.

"A warrior's word is as good as his honor," Gar'mosh said. "And I would stake my own life and honor on those who I've fought beside."

"A noble statement," the Tauren stated. "But I'm surprised at your hatred for shamanism. I thought your people were intent on returning to your shamanistic roots."

"The Warchief may be," Gar'mosh said. "But most of us are not."

"Why not?" the Tauren asked. "From what I've learned, your people were slaves to the fel magic of the warlocks."

"You know nothing," Gar'mosh retorted.

"Then why don't you tell me the truth?" the Tauren asked.

"Warlocks, shaman, mages," the Orc began. "All of you spell-chuckers are the same: all talk, but never there when you're needed. That's the reason we lost the war with the humans; because Gul'dan and his warlocks abandoned us when we had Lordaeron within our grasp. A true warrior does not run from battle, no matter how difficult it may be. That is the meaning of ' _Lok'tar Ogar._ '"

"I can agree with you in part," the Tauren said. "Namely that a warrior should never run from a fight. My people believe that, which is why we were intrigued by you Orcs when we first met. But your disregard for the spirits is alarming."

"Your mouth is alarming," Gar'mosh retorted. "No wonder no one likes you if you keep spouting off."

Just then, the ground began to shake. Gar'mosh looked and saw a large magnataur come lumbering across the tundra, heading towards the road. These creatures were, like the centaur of Kalimdor, half man and half beast, and equally savage. But the equine centaur were not nearly as brutal and strong as the mammutine magnataur. Within moments the beast had plowed into Gar'mosh, throwing him off his feet and onto the frozen ground. With a loud laugh, the Orc pulled himself back onto his feet, defiantly knocking his axe against his shield.

"Good, an actual challenge!" Gar'mosh roared. He then looked at the Tauren. "Go on without me. Not wise to keep Hellscream waiting..." The magnataur swung with its massive tusks and Gar'mosh barely had the chance to duck before being swiped. The Tauren nodded and began to make his way around the battle, leading the deserter behind him. For a moment he hesitated: it wouldn't be honorable to strike the magnataur from behind, but at the same time, he didn't want to leave Gar'mosh to fight the beast alone and unaided.

"Go, you deaf cow!" Gar'mosh shouted, noticing the Tauren's hesitance. "I've got this!"

The Tauren pulled on the rope, leading the deserter with him away from the scene of the battle. In his heart he felt guilty, for he had walked away from battle. True, he had been ordered to do so, but that didn't help matters any more for him. Reluctantly he turned his back again to the battle and went on his way.

* * *

The crossroads. These weren't exactly roads as opposed to tracks made by the native wildlife; the magnataur, the snobolds - arctic variations of their kobold brethren - as well as the tuskarr, who had of old sacred grounds further inland. The ground was frozen almost solid, and only a strong kick from the foot of a magnataur could upset the dirt. Here and there, stark heads of dark gray rock jutted out of the orange and red scrub, around whose flanks gathered stunted shrubs spreading their crimson foliage. The peninsula of the Borean Tundra was at such an elevation that trees did not grow here, and one could be easily spotted coming miles away.

Behind a large rock Leshara huddled against the cold, with her talbuk standing before her to block the wind. It changed seemingly at random, sometimes going this way and sometimes that way; but always biting through the most protective clothing and chilling one to the bone. She didn't much care for the cold: it reminded her of the Great Dark Beyond, where her people had been in exile for countless millennia, being chased by the Burning Legion. Even in the Exodar, the inter-dimensional vessel of their exodus, the cold of the Great Dark Beyond could be felt within its crystalline walls. The thick cloak, lined with the fur of the woolly rhinos of this region, was barely doing its job.

 _This is absurd_ , Leshara thought. _Even if the Horde honor this agreement, they would surely be setting a trap._

The Orcs were not particularly known for subtlety, but there were others among them who most certainly were: the Blood Elves for instance. They had appeared as the allies of the ally of convenience, the one known as the Betrayer. But, like Illidan, they had betrayed the Draenei people. The atrocities they had committed, draining the Light from the Naaru they had captured: such cruelty, such abomination, such blasphemy. The Naaru, the angelic beings of pure Light that had warned Velen the Prophet of the gift of Sargeras, were respected and revered by the Draenei. To see one corrupted, devoured, and destroyed, was as if the light of the sun had been snuffed out.

Leshara sighed, her thoughts drifting through the abyss of time and space back to her home-world of Argus. The ochre plains of Mac'Aree, the violet mountains of Shen'daar, warm summers under the golden sun, and the faces of those who had been lost. Of her eight uncles and five aunts - five uncles and one aunt on her father's side and three uncles and four aunts on the mother's side - four of them had remained behind and accepted the fel: the others met a cruel and brutal fate at the hands of the Orcs. Her love, her betrothed Kogaan, had also accepted the fel. Even after the division had been made, there were others who had been lost: Hatuun the Martyr, who had elected to stay behind and defend the others as they made their departure aboard the Exodar, and the countless tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, who had been lost or fell in the eons between leaving Argus and arriving on Draenor. She would never see their faces again, except perhaps in death. Not her love, though: whether he lived as a foul Eredar, a demon of the Burning Legion, or had been killed by them before becoming man'ari, or perhaps had fallen in a skirmish of the Legion's burning crusade on some distant world, Leshara knew not.

Suddenly there was a distant, dull thudding sound, like a Dwarven mortar shell being fired. She looked up into the cloudy, overcast sky, and saw a dull red flash.

"Well, Jaa'tu," she said to the talbuk. "It looks like they came after all." The talbuk let out a plaintive bleat, and she scratched its lower jaw just below the goattee. "You stay put. If all goes well, I'll come back for you. If not, you run for your life back to the Keep, do you understand?" The talbuk bleated, and she patted its head between the roots of its horns.

Upon her back she bore her swords, the weapons of her trade; the warrior. It would be foolish to go a-field without them, and even greater folly to not take them with her if the Horde would be near. Yet as she reached for her sword, all of her thoughts about Argus and the Naaru brought back memories of less severe times: of a time before Draenor, when her faith in the Light hadn't yet been tested.

"Light," she said. "I haven't always prayed for your guidance and strength. I must admit...I have...doubts about your efficacy; ever since the Orcs took Karabor. If it's your will that I survive today, so let it be: if not, then let my death be swift." With that, she drew out her swords and stepped out from behind the rock, ready for whatever the Horde had in store for her. Therefore it was to her great surprise that she saw a familiar face standing at the crossroads, holding the human deserter on a rope. There stood a large brown thing, half man and half bull: it was a creature of Azeroth, what was called a Tauren. He was clad in a tunic and kilt of lammelar male, with an additional fur cloak for the weather.

"You!" both of them said at once: the Tauren in Taurahe, and the Draenei in her language.

"Gar!" said Leshara, speaking in Common: the language they both knew. "I have not seen you since we took back the Black Temple from the Illidari!"

"Leshara," the Tauren greeted in the same tongue. "I did not expect to see you here in this desolate place." They both breathed a sigh of relief, and Leshara relaxed her grip on her swords. She did not lower her weapons, however; for she was still wary that there may be others present who were less friendly.

"So, you're here for the deserter?" Gar asked.

"Absolutely," Leshara nodded.

The large Tauren approached the Draenei woman: she was tall herself, but the Tauren was taller as well as bigger. Even a fully grown male Draenei, who were easily a match for the size of the Orcs, was half the size of a fully grown Tauren. He handed the rope to the Draenei, who sheathed her swords to take the rope as the Tauren passed the human deserter back to the Alliance: the human seemed like a child next to the Draenei and the Tauren.

"Well, then," the Tauren said. "That takes care of that." The two hesitated, the Tauren's brown eyes meeting the light-blue glowing eyes of the Draenei. There was no hatred between either of them. The Tauren resembled the talbuk in some respects, and had they not been part of the Horde, perhaps there could have been something else between their two races. On Draenor, the broken Draenei who began to lose their connection to the Light found solace in the crying whispers of the tortured elements of that place: in this they were similar, as the Tauren also had great respect for the elements, especially that which was the realm of the Earthmother.

There were also a few physiological similarities between the Tauren and the Draenei.

"Um..." Gar mumbled. "Your horns look nice."

"Oh, thank you!" Leshara exclaimed, laughing uneasily. She hadn't expected such a compliment about her horns: the males bore rugged bone-like plates upon their foreheads, while the females had horns, which they were very particular about the appearance thereof.

"No offense," Gar said quickly, noticing her discomfort.

"No, it's fine," Leshara returned. "If I may say so, your hooves are in good shape, yet you don't even wear hoof-shoes! You don't feel any discomfort?"

"Not at all," Gar replied.

"How is this possible?" the Draenei asked.

"A life of wandering across the plains of Kalimdor," the Tauren answered. Leshara smiled and he returned the gesture, though he quickly turned his head in embarrassment and she quietly chuckled.

"The Naaru bless you and yours," Leshara said in farewell.

"May our paths cross again," Gar returned. The two inclined their heads to each other one at a time, then gave each other the back and returned to their respective holds. Leshara pushed the deserter in front of her, eager to not have him try to get away a second time.

"You and I have some words for each other once we get back to the keep," she said, drawing out one of her swords again and pointing the tip at the deserter's back.

* * *

Umbakka was back at the keep, trying to light a fire for the cooking. While he struck the flint again and again, each time a spark being snuffed out by the bitter winds of the north - which were as invasive as sand, even in the hold - his mind went over the events of this morning. The Tauren who had been sent out to deliver the deserter back to the Alliance; he was not unknown to Umbakka, though he was disregarded by him. As far as he could tell, Gar Earthwalker had been a shaman in training of his tribe, but was generally considered to be a tool by the members of the Horde at large. He had traveled the world quite a bit, as the old troll had heard, going to see the Eastern Kingdoms, the lands where no Tauren had ever set hoof to grass. As a result, this Tauren had likely had occasion to learn many things in his wanderings; but Umbakka didn't bother asking him about it.

In a society like the Horde, where battle was everything, strength was the only law. The word of the strong was held as the only authority, and shame and dishonor was the burden of those who were weak. As such, few considered any knowledge that Gar had to offer as worth anything, as it came from someone generally considered to be a weak tool.

"He be not worth ya time, mon," Umbakka sighed to himself. "Gotta get dis fiyah lit."

He returned to the flint, only to become aware of the voice of Garrosh Hellscream howling with rage: someone had told him something that he wasn't pleased with. There was a sound of a weapon being buried in flesh, a groan of pain, and then two Orcs appeared in the mess hall, dragging a slain messenger between them; they unceremoniously threw the dead Orc's body at Umbakka's feet.

"There's your supper, cannibal," one Orc sneered.

"An' what me supposed ta be doin' wit dis?" Umbakka asked.

"Eat it!" the first one said. "Or give it to those filthy Forsaken if you can't stomach it."

The second one grunted and made a rude gesture, then the two of them walked away. Umbakka rolled his eyes, then looked down at the fallen Orc. Trolls had a reputation as cannibals - eating the flesh of any sentient humanoid, whether human, Orc, Dwarf, or other trolls - and while this had served to bring the Amani into the old Horde during the Second War, the Darkspear Tribe had this legacy looming over their heads many years after joining Thrall's Horde and forsaking the practice, having been moved by the Warchief's honorable actions on the Lost Isles.

Umbakka couldn't use this Orc's eyes for his old stew, as they weren't large enough for his purposes. He swore under his breath, wondering where that Orc hunter had gone; the one he had sent off for the gorloc eyes.

But all thought of fire-making went out of his head as his ears caught the commotion upstairs. Leaving the mess hall for a while, he made his way as close to the main room as he could, listening to what was going on outside of his purview.

"...they took back the deserter and we parted ways," the voice of Gar spoke.

"SO WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!" Garrosh roared.

"I...I don't understand, my lord," Gar returned. "I carried out your orders exactly as you wanted..."

"DO YOU DARE CHALLENGE MY HONOR, PUNY COW?!" Garrosh shouted. There was the sound of a blow landing. "AND YOU, GAR'MOSH! YOU WERE SENT TO MAKE SURE THAT THINGS CAME TO BLOWS! WHY IS THIS LITTLE SHIT STILL ALIVE?!"

"A magnataur attacked while we were on the road," the voice of another Orc replied. "I fought it off single-handed..."

"AND YOU DIDN'T JOIN THE FIGHT?!" Garrosh exclaimed. "COWARD! YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DROWNED AT BIRTH!"

"Overlord!" the voice of Gol'og interjected. "This simple Tauren was only following your orders, and he carried them out exactly as you ordered. Is he to be punished for following your orders?"

"YES!" Garrosh retorted. "AS WILL _ALL_ WHO DEFY ME OR CHALLENGE MY HONOR!"

"How has your honor been challenged, overlord?" Gol'og asked. There was tense silence, broken only by deep, rasping gasps from the brown Orc overlord. Umbakka stuffed his three-fingered fist into his mouth to keep from laughing at this predicament: Garrosh didn't strike him as a very intelligent leader, even by Orcish standards. Although he did wonder what Garrosh meant by his honor being challenged.

"YOU CHALLENGE ME TOO?!" Garrosh finally exclaimed. "AM I SURROUNDED BY COWARDS AND TRAITORS?!"

"The magnataur was mighty!" the Orc who had been referred to as Gar'mosh stated. "I brought back his tusk as proof of my victory. But by the time he was dead, the cow was already on his way back and the prisoner had been delivered..."

"ENOUGH!" roared Garrosh. "YOU MAKE EXCUSES FOR YOUR FAILURE LIKE A SIMPERING HUMAN! YOU INSULT MY HONOR WITH YOUR VERY LIFE! AND YOU, OLD MAN; DON'T THINK THAT YOUR RENOWN WILL SAVE YOU FROM PUNISHMENT! MALKOROK, TAKE THEM OUTSIDE AND CUT OFF THEIR HEADS!"

"Overlord!" Saurfang interjected. "I advise you not to do this."

"YOU OVERSTEP YOURSELF, OLD MAN!" Garrosh retorted. " _I_ AM IN COMMAND! _I_ AM! _ME!_ NOBODY ELSE! NOT YOU AND NOT YOUR PRECIOUS, HUMAN-LOVING WARCHIEF! CHALLENGE ME AGAIN AND I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF!"

Saurfang laughed. "How many wars have you fought, boy? How many victories have you added to your name?"

"DON'T CALL ME BOY!"

"I've survived all three wars our people have fought on this world," Saurfang retorted. "You couldn't kill me if you wanted to: and you _will_ spare their lives."

"WHY SHOULD I? THEY INSULT MY HONOR!"

"If you had honor," Saurfang retorted. "You would merely punish the one for failing to carry out your orders, as foolhardy and reckless as they were. The Tauren followed your orders and so should not be punished. As for Gol'og, he is a hardy warrior and beloved by your soldiers. It would not be wise to kill him, as they would think that perhaps you silenced him because he was right. Your honor will be stained by his death."

There was silence, filled only with the panting of Garrosh Hellscream. While the Orc's tiny mind tried to figure a way out of this predicament with his honor intact, Umbakka marveled at what he had heard. The memories of this morning came back into mind: Gar had been sent on what Overlord Hellscream believed would be a suicide mission. In fact, he had been banking on it being a suicide mission, even going so far as to have the one called Gar'mosh accompany the Tauren and insure that the delivery turned into a battle. Likely the war-mongering Garrosh wanted to do battle with the Alliance, and viewed the death of Gar as an acceptable loss if it served to put their two factions at war once again: and war-mongering he was indeed, as Umbakka knew from first-hand experience about the _mak'gora_ in Orgrimmar that had been interrupted by the invasion of the Scourge necropolises.

"THEY WILL NOT DIE," Garrosh said at last. "BUT THEY _WILL_ BE PUNISHED FOR INSULTING ME! FORTY LASHES FOR THE COW FOR REFUSING TO DIE AND RUNNING FROM BATTLE! FORTY LASHES FOR GAR'MOSH FOR FAILING TO FOLLOW MY ORDERS! AND FOR GOL'OG...SIXTY LASHES!" There were some voices gasping in surprise at this. "FOR CHALLENGING MY HONOR!"

Umbakka chuckled to himself: he did not envy the two Orcs and the Tauren, that was for sure. The lash of the whip was not uncommon at Warsong Hold, whether for the back of the peons or those who were disciplined. Even back home in Kalimdor, the Crimson Ring continued the cycle of slavery that the Orcs had suffered at the hands of the humans in the internment camps. But aside from the fact that someone else was bearing the brunt of Hellscream's fury besides himself, Umbakka laughed at the inconsistency of Garrosh. From what had happened in Orgrimmar, Umbakka knew that the Warchief had mentioned Garrosh's father Grom, which had been provocation enough to trigger Garrosh into a rage where he challenged Thrall to _mak'gora_. Clearly the Overlord was a fool, if he could be so easily manipulated and lost his shit every time someone insulted him or his honor, or mentioned the former chieftain of the Warsong Clan.

At last, however, the flint made a spark. The troll blew on it, shielding the flickering tongue of fire from the cold winds with his hands. A small flame arose from the kindling over the hearth and the troll cackled.

"Now where be dat Orc wit dem eye-balls?" he groaned.

* * *

 **(AN: A nice long chapter, though I don't know if I'll be able to keep making chapters this long. They feel better than the 2k word chapters I'm used to, so that's a plus. As far as what I stated in the first author's note, I hinted at my version of Stonetalon Mountains within the prose. I'm thinking nobody's going to catch it and I'll have to explain it and then you'll complain that my author's notes are too long and rambling. I just can't win.)**

 **(There is one thing I want to tell in these stories through subtext, which is something that I've realized after nine years of playing on the Horde: they're actually a pretty weak faction. Unlike the Alliance, who are united by their similar beliefs [most of them either believe in the Light or respect the Light through the faith of Elune] and physical homogeneity [Night Elves and Draenei being the variations thereof, and Worgen being human when they're not werewolves], the Horde is a fragmented group of different races whose only real purpose for unifying is self-preservation [which explains why Thrall let the Forsaken into the Horde, to create a balance of power on Azeroth]. The Orcs, Trolls, and Tauren have similar shamanistic and honor-based beliefs, but the undead and the Blood Elves believe in nothing and have no honor. Furthermore, the Blood Elves and the undead have bad blood with the members of the Horde as much as the members of the Alliance [i don't think Garithos alone blots out the centuries of Troll/Elven animosity].)**


	5. Heroes and Villains

**(AN: I wish I had something clever to put here, but I really don't. Maybe my author's notes are the reason nobody's reading this story [or just that it's not good in general]. Oh well, on with the story.)**

* * *

 **Heroes and Villains**

The return to Valiance Keep was uneventful. Leshara delivered the deserter to General Arlos, who had him brought out to the middle of the camp and had him publicly flogged twenty times. Leshara watched the event with a grave sincerity, wincing as the rod struck the deserter's back. There was no joy or pleasure to be had in this man's punishment for the Draenei soldier. When it was at last done, the General had the deserter put in prison for twelve days, after which he would serve another twelve days of hard labor.

"Let that be a lesson to all of you," the General said to those gathered around the whipping post. "You're part of the King's army: desertion will _not_ be tolerated!"

The crowds slowly dispersed, each returning to their own assigned posts. Leshara returned as well, but she was still of a mind to speak to the prisoner. After the day's work had been concluded, the Draenei made her way to the Keep in order to speak with the prisoner. She made her intentions known to the prison-keeper, who pointed her to the deserter's cell. As she approached the bars of the cell, she noticed the prisoner was sitting on the floor in the center of his cell: he wore a simple tunic whose back was stained with blood, but Leshara could not see this.

"Are you awake?" Leshara asked. "Listen, I have words for you, _vrachei_."

"Come to gawk at the prisoner, have you?" The deserter asked. "Piss off."

"I want to know why you deserted your post." Leshara said.

The prisoner scoffed. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

"Do I look like kid?" Leshara asked.

"With those horns, hooves, and that tail of yours, yes."

"You know what I mean!" Leshara retorted: the Common tongue was sluggish and still foreign to her. "Tell me why you left your post."

"If you don't know already, you're a fool." said the prisoner. "We shouldn't be here."

"Fighting the undead?" Leshara asked. "Were you not there when the plague came to Stormwind? Do you not wish to defeat the Scourge?"

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Then tell me," Leshara insisted. "Help me to understand."

"This place is a frozen hell!" The prisoner exclaimed; as he spoke, he lunged at the bars and Leshara stepped back. The deserter's hands trembled as they gripped the bars, his voice trembled as he spoke, and fear was in his eyes.

"Even those ignorant Light-fearing fools say that Northrend is a 'Light-forsaken' place," the deserter continued. "Only the dead are here, and the things that live are wild animals, monsters. The cold gets everywhere: it bites through every cloak, howling endlessly day and night, mocking us! Every inch of ground we've gained has been lost the very next day! Don't you see? We don't belong here! This war is useless: our leaders have sent us into the frozen heart of death only to die!"

"We're here to fight the undead!" Leshara reasoned.

"It's useless!" The deserter cried. "Their numbers are endless! We strike down one of them, and another takes its place; but they kill one of us and add them to their numbers! They're worse than the Horde!"

"Do you not at least respect the authority of your superiors?" Leshara asked. "The captains, the commanders, the General; even your King?!"

"Fuck the King!" The deserter swore. "What has he ever done for me? He's been gone for years and now that he shows up, does he expect me to bow down to him? While he sits in his precious ivory tower in Stormwind, far away from the battle, it's the little people like us who are dying! And for what?"

"First you say that it's the land that gives you fear," Leshara reasoned. "And now you blame your King? Which is it? Or do you have no defense for your cowardice and are simply making this up as you go along?"

"You wouldn't understand," scoffed the deserter. "It's too nuanced for your simple mind, blue goat."

With that, Leshara reached into the bars and seized the deserter by the throat.

"I've been fighting the Burning Legion long before your race came into being," Leshara retorted. "I won't stand for this Orc-talk coming from a sniveling coward!" With her other hand she reached through the bars and slapped the deserter across the face twice, once upon each cheek. When she let him go, he cowered to the ground, tripping on the straw on the floor of his cell, and falling onto his back.

She turned tail and walked out of the dungeon, but her mind was troubled. Who in their right mind would think about deserting from a just war against a great evil such as the Legion or the Scourge? It made no sense in her mind that a member of the proud and valiant Alliance would run from battle.

With these thoughts and more in her head, Leshara went to the women's bunk in the barracks and fell asleep. Unlike the Horde, the Alliance kept the sexes apart when they slept, though they served together as equals; and unlike the Horde, there were fewer incidents among the male and female soldiers as a result of this necessary separation. The Draenei warrior slept in peace for several hours, until the dreams came back. She had had the same dream at least once every cycle - or whatever the people of Azeroth called the rotation of a world around its sun. She was within the amber fields of Mac'Aree again, and Kogaan was there with her. Even after over ten thousand years, she could still feel his hand upon her cheek and smell the musk from his facial tendrils. But the dream ended the same way every time, with them being parted and darkness coming between them.

Tonight she awoke, gasping in fear, hoping in vain that this time she would reach out her hand and touch something rather than the ether: but there was nothing there. She shut her eyes, willing away the tears. She had made her decision eons ago, and thinking about it was doing nothing but hurting her. Nevertheless, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling of guilt, or the yearning question of what if: what if she had a chance to go back and do things differently, knowing what she knew how? Would she insist that Kogaan stay with her? Would he resent her for that? Or what if she had stayed with him on Argus and accepted the fel? Power was not her temptation, and so she had refused when it was offered, heeding the feeling of distrust that she had within her heart about the gift of Sargeras and following after Velen and the exiles. But had it truly been worth it, leaving him for a life of solitude, misery, and pain?

 _I must stop thinking about him_ , Leshara told herself. _He's gone beyond recall and this is only hurting me._

She returned her head to the pillow and tried to sleep. But sleep was far from her mind, as now her thoughts drifted to something else. A muffled squeal of frustration broke her concentration. She looked to the bunk across from her and saw a tiny lamp glowing from underneath a sheet.

" _Mikrei!_ " she hissed. "It's lights out! Go back to sleep!"

There was a frustrated "Ooooh!" from beneath the blanket and the pink pony-tailed head of Zippy popped out to see who had caught her.

"Shh, I'm almost done!" the Gnome whispered.

"You've been working on that every night since we arrived here," Leshara said. "You're going to get us in trouble."

"Not if you don't keep quiet!" squealed Zippy. She then prepared to return to her work, then made a double take and looked at Leshara. "Why are you awake? I couldn't have been making _that_ much noise."

"No, I..." Leshara sighed. "I've just been thinking, is all. About that deserter. I spoke with him before bed. The things he said...I don't understand."

"Well, you're still relatively new to Azeroth, no offense," Zippy said.

"None taken," Leshara returned: Gnomes were the best company, agreeable some would say overmuch. "It wasn't his language that confused me, but his words." She chuckled. "I know it sounds silly, but I couldn't understand why he said the things he said."

"Hmm," Zippy mused for a moment. "Well, like you said, it's too late and we might get in trouble. I'll talk to the captain and see about getting us assigned to the same shift. Then we can talk all you want."

"I would like that," Leshara said. "There's still so much about your world I don't understand, I would like to hear it from someone who lives here."

Zippy chuckled. "I'm not sure how much you'd like it."

* * *

Earlier that day at the Warsong Hold, the Tauren and the two Orcs were being brought to the whipping post. All those who were off duty or had nothing better to do watched in eagerness as they were tied to the posts and had their upper garments ripped off their backs: Umbakka the troll was among the assembled crowd, watching the scene from behind. Three strong Orcs were each given a whip of leather tongs to administer Hellscream's punishment upon them. Gar and Gol'og were silent, but Gar'mosh was not happy with this predicament.

"I've done nothing wrong!" he roared. "Why am I to be punished for being waylaid?!"

"STOP YOUR B*TCHING AND TAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT LIKE AN ORC!" Garrosh roared.

Rather than have all three punishments take place at once, it had been Hellscream's order to carry them out one at a time. As Gar'mosh had protested to being punished, his would be carried out first. The Orc swung the whip and cracked it upon Gar'mosh's back. Gar'mosh grunted through the blows, trying not to make a sound. Those around him jeered as he was struck, wagged their tongues at him, and beat their chests. Ten stripes, then fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, and then at last the fortieth blow. Gar'mosh was breathing heavily and his muscled green back was covered with purple stripes where the blood had been spilled. Two Orcs took him by the arms and led him away. Next came Gar the Tauren's turn to be lashed. The Orc who held his whip laughed at the Tauren, taunting him with words in the Orcish tongue. Once the whip cracked across the Tauren's thick hide; then twice, three times, four times. Gar grit his teeth but made no noise as the whip cracked upon his back. Those around him laughed and threw insults at him and his parentage, with many taking up the "Sham What a Shame" song that Talen had invented in their cruel, atonal Orcish voices. Five, six, seven, eight, nine: ten times the whip struck his back but he made no sound. At length Garrosh held up his hand and ordered the whipping to cease.

"WE'VE BEEN TOO GENTLE ON THIS COWARD!" Garrosh said, his tattooed bottom jaw grinning as a wicked light burned in his yellow eyes. "BRING OUT THE CAT'S TAIL! I WANT TO HEAR THIS ONE SQUEAL LIKE A PIG!"

The Orc discarded the whip and was handed a cat o nine tails, with many jagged teeth made of iron: he laughed menacingly as he looked at its barbed points and then the Tauren's bare back.

"PROCEED...FROM THE TOP!" Garrosh ordered with a grin. Many around laughed and jeered, or howled in eagerness for the blood to be spilled.

"But, my lord!" an Orc interjected. "Your order was forty lashes! This coward has already received ten..." Garrosh punched the objecting Orc in the face.

"THE NEXT ONE TO SPEAK UP WILL JOIN THEM IN THEIR PUNISHMENT!" threatened Hellscream. Silence filled the stables, with only the wolves and boars making any noises. Garrosh then turned to the Orc. "NOW, TEAR THE FLESH FROM THIS COWARD'S WORTHLESS HIDE!"

The Orc nodded and sent the cat's tail whooshing through the air, ripping flesh as it struck the Tauren's back. Those around howled with laughter, jeered loudly, and laughed when the Tauren cried out. Some threw piles of feces from the animals at him. Others sang Talen's mocking song. Some of the younger ones got as close as they dared, and let the spray of his blood splatter across their faces. When they were thus showered by blood, they hooted and hollered and howled madly, giving themselves over to the bloodlust. When at last fifty lashes had been administered, Garrosh held off the order to take him away. Instead, he was left at the mercy of his tormentors: they laughed at him, spat and threw feces on him. Others dropped their trousers and pissed in his face.

At last, Garrosh came to Gol'og, who had watched the proceedings with a frown.

"This is not the way," he said.

"NO TRUE ORC WOULD DARE VOUCHSAFE FOR A COWARD!" Garrosh retorted.

Gol'og looked at Garrosh in the eyes. "Would an Orc beat his own brethren for sport, hmm? Just like the humans treated us in the internment camps."

"HOW DARE YOU INSULT MY HONOR _AGAIN!_ " Garrosh roared. "BEAT THIS ONE UNTIL HE CAN NO LONGER TALK FROM THE PAIN!"

But the Orc who was given the duty of punishing Gol'og was none other than Bo'dakh, the Orc woman whose honor he had defended in the bunks that morning. She held the whip in her hand, and looked at the back of Gol'og, scarred from many battles and the whips of the human slave-masters from the internment camps. His words rang true in her ears: she had spent her whole life in the camps, knowing no other world but that until Warchief Thrall had liberated the Horde. The bloodlust of her race would have had her lashing his back, regardless of who he was or what he had done for the Horde, the company under his command, or for her specifically. But what Gol'og had said about the camps would not leave her mind: what honor was there in lowering oneself to the level of the humans that had oppressed and enslaved their people?

"DO YOU DEFY ME ALSO?!" Garrosh asked, approaching Bo'dakh with anger in his eyes. She remained still, not moving and not responding, only staring down in horror at Gol'og's scarred back and at her own hands. Garrosh looked about and saw that the jeering, laughing faces were now grave and grim. There was no laughter anymore. Some even looked at him suspiciously and with distrust. Garrosh's lower jaw jutted out from beneath his mouth, like a dumb animal caught in a trap, desperately looking for escape.

"AM I SURROUNDED BY COWARDS AND TRAITORS?!" Garrosh roared, looking about to those in the crowd. "IS THERE NO ONE LOYAL TO ME?!"

"I am loyal," Malkorok spoke up.

"THEN YOU BEAT HIM!" Garrosh ordered.

"With pleasure," Malkorok said as he stepped out from among the crowds.

"USE THE CAT'S TAIL!" Garrosh shouted.

"Overlord, I must protest!" Saurfang, who had been standing silent throughout the whole ordeal, interjected. "Gol'og is greatly respected. It would not look good on you to shed his blood in this way."

Garrosh's face fell into a scowl of disappointment, then he roared in anger and stomped his boot on the ground. With that, he stepped away from the center of the crowd and gave the order: "AS YOU WERE!"

Malkorok took the whip from Bo'dakh, pushed her aside and brought the lash down. Over and over he lashed Gol'og's back, laughing and licking his lips hungrily, relishing the pain he brought to others: the bloodthirstiness of the Blackrock Clan was no less than that of the Warsong or Bonechewer Clans. There were no jeers while Gol'og was punished. No laughter, no cries of joy; and only Malkorok cared to mock the one he was beating. The Blackrock Orc had the stamina of Garrosh, and showed no sign of slowing down even after fifty lashes. He brought down again for a fifty-fifth time; fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, then at last sixty. The dark-skinned Orc stood there, chuckling at Gol'og's pain: the old Orc hadn't made a sound throughout the ordeal, though his mouth was full of purple blood from his fangs biting into his lip. When all was said and done, Garrosh again stepped into the middle of the crowd and addressed them.

"I WILL HAVE ORDER!" he roared. "I AM YOUR OVERLORD! I SAY WHAT IS DONE, AND HOW IT IS DONE! MY WORD IS LAW AND THOSE WHO PROTEST WILL BE PUNISHED! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!" There was stunned silence. "NOW PISS OFF!"

The crowds began to disperse. Gol'og struggled to his feet, and Saurfang came to his side. He did not offer a hand but instead punched him in the shoulder.

"It was not wise to challenge him," said Saurfang.

"Why do you follow him?" Gol'og breathed. "You see that he's a fool!"

"I don't follow him, I teach him," Saurfang said. "Thrall hopes that my experience might rub off on him."

"It doesn't seem to be working," Gol'og muttered.

"Do you think I'm a poor teacher?" Saurfang asked with a slight chuckle.

"No," Gol'og returned. "But, as I've heard it, Hellscream didn't exactly have the same upbringing as your son Dran'osh."

"I've heard the same as well," Saurfang nodded, then sighed. "For my part, I am glad that my boy was never burdened by the past mistakes of an old man. His future is his own, and his honor is his own to earn." He shook his head. "But come, we've reminisced enough. I'll have the witch doctor see to your wounds."

"Thank you, but I need no pity," Gol'og dismissed. "I will wear these marks with pride, knowing in my heart that I spoke the truth."

Saurfang grunted and saluted Gol'og with a fist to the chest, and Gol'og returned the gesture. As Gol'og pushed himself up to his feet, Bo'dakh was watching him and looking at his back. She still seemed displeased with what had happened. She turned away for a brief moment, and then saw the old troll lurking in the shadows.

"Witch doctor!" she growled. "I need a healing salve."

"An' what ya be givin' me in return?" Umbakka asked.

"Quite a bit," she answered.

The old troll gestured for Bo'dakh to follow her to the mess hall. While they were walking, he aimed a two-toed kick at the body of Gar Earthwalker, lying bleeding upon the floor. He shook his head and muttered to himself, then led the way out from the stables and into the mess hall. Once they were inside, he went to his cabinet and began searching the bottles.

"Now den," Umbakka said. "What be ya offerin' to ol' Umbakka?"

"Inside information," Bo'dakh replied. "I have a...friend in the Arathi Highlands."

"What kind o' friend be dat?" Umbakka asked.

"Not important!" she growled. "He's dead: slain in battle with the Alliance during one of their raids. But what he told me is more important: three years before he died, he had been looking into what the Defilers were doing in the basin."

"I be listenin'," Umbakka nodded.

"They were shipping supplies gathered from the Arathi Basin north," she said. "It didn't make sense: as you recall, this was before the Blood Elves joined the Horde. What would the Forsaken need with grain, animals, and raw materials?"

"Quite a few tings," Umbakka reasoned. "Tings I know. Tings I heard of. Hardly worth much."

"He mentioned someone who might know what those supplies were being used for," Bo'dakh added. "Someone who had been involved in the north back then."

"Why would da Forsaken trust an outsidah?" Umbakka asked.

"The Forsaken had a lot on their plates at the time," Bo'dakh answered. "Alliance attacks from Southshore, the Worgen from Shadowfang Keep, the Dwarves of the Aerie Peaks, and the Scourge and the Scarlet Crusade on their doorstep: needless to say, they were stretched pretty thin. My friend told me they were outsourcing a lot of tasks to anyone stupid enough to say yes."

Umbakka nodded, his fingers clutching a bottle of healing salve. "And who be dis someone ya friend mention?"

"A Tauren shaman," Bo'dakh said. "I forgot what his name was, but I think his tribe was Earthwalker."

Umbakka chuckled. "What? Dat slow, dim-witted lug Gar Earthwalker? How can ye trust anything he say?"

"My friend's word was as good as his honor," Bo'dakh returned. "It might be worth looking into."

"P'haps," Umbakka nodded. "But dat ain't gonna be enough for ya salve."

"I have other things that can be useful to you," the Orc returned. "Our Elven allies value shiny things more than information, so you might find these useful." She removed from around her neck a pendant of silver set with a tiny blue gem that glistened with its own faint light. In addition to this, she gave him several gold coins. The troll looked at the coins, biting them each at a time, and then examined the necklace.

"Dis will do for now," Umbakka said. "But ye owe me someting betta next time." He gave to her a glass jar of salve. Just then heavy boots were heard stomping into the mess hall. A large green Orc clad in furs was carrying on his shoulders a large caribou body over the one and a bloody sack over the other.

"Kron'gar!" the troll greeted. "Was wonderin' what kept ya."

"It was a glorious hunt!" Kron'gar said as he approached the two of them. "The beasts in this land are better than the ones back in Kalimdor: larger, meatier, and they put up a much better fight." He laid down the caribou on the floor before them. "There's plenty of game in this land: one just needs to know where to find it. And these..." He placed the bag down before the troll. "...are the eyes you sought."

"Excellent!" Umbakka exclaimed. "I be gettin' dese into da pot right away! First tings first, gotta get da hearth lit."

"I'll help for a portion of that meat once it's been turned on the spit," Bo'dakh stated.

Kron'gar relayed to them the tales of his hunt upon the frozen tundra plains. The hunt had gone rather well, but he was disappointed that he hadn't gotten the chance to bring down something larger, such as the woolly rhinos or mammoths. Bo'dakh was slightly interested in hearing this, but her attention was occupied with preparing the caribou. Unlike Kron'gar and Gol'og, she had been born on Azeroth and knew almost nothing about life on Draenor: therefore hearing him ramble on about how much the beasts of Azeroth compared to those of Draenor meant almost nothing to her.

As the time came for the evening meal, the mess hall was filled with the living warriors of the Horde. The Orcs, Trolls and Tauren ate together, but the few Blood Elves there were always ate with other Blood Elves or by themselves. Gol'og ate nothing, but remained in a corner by himself drinking with Saurfang and reminiscing about the old days. Bo'dakh watched him periodically, her mind still afresh with what she had heard earlier that day. At her table were Gar'mosh, Kron'gar, and Umbakka's assistant Tel'jirza; a buxom Troll with green hair who seemed to be lost in thought as she ate her steaming bowl of rice porridge. Meanwhile, Kron'gar was listening while Gar'mosh filled him in on what had happened.

"It doesn't seem right," Kron'gar stated. "Why should you be punished for a magnataur attack?" He chuckled.

"I failed Overlord Hellscream," Gar'mosh replied. "He had no choice but to be strict with me. If he wasn't strict, he wouldn't command the respect of the Horde's Vanguard and nothing would get done up here."

Kron'gar grunted. "Still, if I had been there, you would've spared yourself the stripes. That magnataur would have been a worthy challenge!"

"But den dat Tauren would be dead," Tel'jirza commented.

"Good riddance, I say!" Gar'mosh retorted. "I saw him in battle and he's as worthless as they say."

"But ya sent 'im away, mon," said the Troll. "He didn't leave of his own. Ya have no idea what him can do."

"Why are you defending him?" Gar'mosh asked. "Do you like him?"

"Oh, nah!" Tel'jirza chuckled. "Me got someone else's heart for me own, and he ain't a Tauren."

"Maybe you're as much a failure as that Tauren is?" Gar'mosh suggested. "To each their own, you know." The Troll gave him a sour expression.

"And here I thought those stripes would have given you some humility," Kron'gar grumbled.

"Bah!" Gar'mosh retorted. "A true warrior needs no humility."

"You mean a true warrior is like Hellscream, don't you?" Kron'gar asked.

"And why not?" Gar'mosh asked. "He takes what is his, without apology, and he has strength: real strength! We swore allegiance to the Warchief because he offered us a chance to fight the humans that enslaved us, and what has he done? Nothing but make pacts with them!"

"For the present," Kron'gar stated. "Our goals are the same: the destruction of the Scourge. There will be time for wars later."

"Not later," Bo'dakh added. "Sooner. There are rumors that the human king has returned: it's said he has a great hatred for our kind."

"Hah!" Gar'mosh shouted. "That's more like it! Once we wipe these undead off the face of Azeroth, we'll finally be back to doing what we do best." He nudged Kron'gar in the shoulder. "And the filthy humans will be the ones to start it: no need to turn your nose up at that!"

Bo'dakh grinned, but her eyes shifted to the edge of the mess hall. She saw Gol'og leaving the mess hall, with shoulders hunched and back bent. She took the bit of roasted caribou that she had for herself, the extra bit she acquired earlier, as well as the salve, and followed the old Orc. He went to the currently deserted officer's quarters, and sat down on a fur blanket that served as a bed.

" _Throm'ka_ , Gol'og," Bo'dakh greeted. The old Orc turned about, surprised at her appearance. He grunted and nodded. "I've brought some food and salve for you."

"I don't need healing," Gol'og sighed.

"You needn't posture to me, sir," Bo'dakh stated. "I'm merely doing my duty as your subordinate. If I may say so, you're not as young and strong as you used to be, and you took more beating than the others." She placed the caribou meat before Gol'og, who stared at it and then looked at the young Orc woman. He then reached down and took a bite from the meat. Behind him Bo'dakh began applying the salve to the old Orc's back; Gol'og winced at the touch of a hand upon his wounds, but made no sound.

"Why are you doing this for me?" Gol'og asked.

"You stood up for me earlier today," Bo'dakh said. "Consider this my thanks."

Gol'og grunted. Neither of the Orcs said anything to each other for the first moment or so. Bo'dakh carefully applied the salve to Gol'og's back; while he ate in peace. After many long moments of silence, Bo'dakh spoke her mind.

"What you said earlier, in the stables," she said. "Why did you say it?"

"Because it's the truth," Gol'og sighed.

"The strong make the truth," Bo'dakh stated. "And for the present, the strongest is Hellscream. Why would you antagonize him?"

"Orcs have no business enslaving our brothers and sisters," Gol'og answered. "Otherwise, we're no different than Gul'dan and the warlocks, or the humans."

"It was just punishment," Bo'dakh said. "Hardly slavery. You could have remained silent and not incurred Hellscream's wrath any further."

"Garrosh wasn't angry only because I said that his public beatings of us were like the humans from the camps," Gol'og reasoned. "When I spoke up on behalf of Gar'mosh, I revealed something about Garrosh's intentions for the return of the deserter; something he would've liked to remain hidden. Something that brought dishonor to his name, if there are any left in the Horde who care for honor anymore."

Bo'dakh's fingers pressed into the open wound on Gol'og's back, causing him to wince. His words had stung her again and she didn't like it.

"There are some who still care about honor," Bo'dakh returned through clenched teeth. "Some of us who realize that the Warchief gave us a better future, something beyond a meaningless existence in the mud of the internment camps." She halted, saying nothing for the present. While her anger subsided, into her mind came what Gol'og had said about Hellscream's true intentions.

"What was it you revealed?" she asked.

"That Garrosh sent that Tauren out into the wilderness," Gol'og explained. "Hoping that the Alliance would do his dirty work for him without staining his hands. He all but admitted that Gar'mosh had been sent along as insurance, to make sure that the deserter's return turned into a battle and that the Tauren died during it."

"Why would Hellscream do that?" Bo'dakh asked.

"Several reasons, I think," Gol'og replied. "Garrosh has been very dissatisfied with the recruits the Warchief sent here to fight the undead. He sent several of my strongest out to the abandoned farms to the southwest, the ones that had been overrun by the undead. He clearly wanted to remove those he considered too weak for his army. Also Gar Earthwalker is..." He grumbled. "...a fool. A useful one, with the potential to become a valuable asset to the Horde, but Garrosh is unconcerned with potential strength, only with present strength; of which Gar has little. He would see him as a nuisance and a burden on the Horde, and his loss would be acceptable." He sighed.

"There's more?"

"I was there, when the Warchief first met Garrosh," Gol'og stated. "I was present at the meeting in Nagrand. Garrosh was different then; grim, sullen, and bitter. Too long had he been forced to shoulder the shame of his father's sins: who knows what resentment he harbored for the world around him as a result of those years. Now with each passing day I see in him a poison, not unlike the fel but wholly unmagical; a disease that feasts on all those around it, spreading the suffering and bitterness of itself on to others." He sighed again. "I respect Warchief Thrall, but I wonder if he wasn't looking at Garrosh at that time with false hope, believing that he bore the honorable aspects of his father Grommash, but none of his less-than-admirable traits."

Bo'dakh groaned. "You're talking in riddles, Gol'og! Speak plainly in words that we can all understand! If Hellscream is poisoned, then he must see a healer!"

"It's not a poison that we are accustom to," Gol'og stated. "I can't describe it in any words other than a sickness of the mind. As for healing, Garrosh has that in Saurfang. But the more he refuses to listen to his advice, as well as the instruction of the Warchief, and surrounds himself with only those who agree with him, I fear that Garrosh will make himself immune to the cure rather than the disease."

"I'm no healer," Bo'dakh said. "I'm a fighter, and all this talk of poisons and diseases is over my head. You should take this up with Umbakka if you think he can help you: he has potions for any kind of ailments."

Gol'og chuckled softly.

"You should be careful who you say this to," Bo'dakh added. "There are some who wouldn't take kindly to having Hellscream spoken of in such matter. Now finish the meat I brought you before it gets cold."

Gol'og reached for the caribou while Bo'dakh finished up the application of ointment. The old Orc didn't know, and if Bo'dakh knew more than she suspected, she would have told him to be silent. There had been one who was indeed listening to what was being spoken between the two of them. One who had noted Bo'dakh's concern for Gol'og throughout the day, and, when no one was looking, slunk out of the mess hall and followed her back to the officer's quarters.

Umbakka sees much. Hears much. Knows much.

* * *

Morning dawned upon the arid Borean Tundra. In Valiance Keep, three soldiers were now making their way out from the keep for the morning scouting shift. They had already eaten breakfast, reported to their superior officers, and received their duties. They ranged in height from tall, to average, to very small: for these were in fact Leshara, Zippy, and the middle-aged human who had shared drinks with the Draenei and Gnome the day before. His name was Ivandyr Smythe, and his family were originally blacksmiths from Goldshire. The Draenei had her two swords, and the human a sword and shield, while the little Gnome had a knife as her only means of defense. She took with her a back-pack that was almost as big as she was, and assured her taller companions that they wouldn't have to worry themselves about her safety.

They had been walking for hours upon the amber plains of the tundra. The cold winds howled and bit through their warm clothing. A herd of mammoths trudged along in the distance, trumpeting out ever so often. The distant drums of the Warsong Hold echoed from the west, while the winds from the east were heavy with the smell of death. Far and away they could see something floating in the distance, a dark shadow upon the sky, floating beneath the gray overcast skies: it was a Scourge necropolis, similar to Naxxramas that had held sway over the Plaguelands for the past four years before it had vanished. Necropolises such as these had appeared in the skies over Stormwind, Ironforge, Lordaeron, and Orgrimmar, in the past few months, heralding the coming of the Scourge. The sight of this one served as a constant reminder that they were on the threshold of death, at whose mercy they now waited.

"So, Leshara," Zippy spoke up. "Do you wanna share what you were thinking about last night?"

"Perhaps," the Draenei nodded. "Maybe since we have this _vrachei_ with us, he can provide better insight into my problem."

"Excuse me," Ivandyr interjected. "Vash what? And what exactly is the problem?"

" _Vrachei_ ," Leshara stated, as if confused. "That's what you are, isn't it?"

"That's what her people call humans, I take it," Zippy stated.

"So what was your problem, then?" Ivandyr asked.

Leshara recounted to him the events of the return of the deserter and what he had said, leaving out the encounter with Gar. As far as she had revealed, the prisoner return had gone off without a hitch.

"Surprising," Ivandyr mused. "I'd have expected the Horde would have tried something. That they didn't sounds quite unlike them."

"But what about the prisoner?" Leshara asked. "I've only been among the Alliance for a little time, and what I've seen by and large stands in opposition to what he said."

Ivandyr sighed. "I wish it were so. I'm sad to say that you've only seen us at our best. But at our worst, the people of the Alliance can truly be terrible."

Leshara chuckled. "Is this joke? I don't understand _vrachei_ humor very well."

"It's not a joke," Ivandyr said. "Surely you've heard some people call you 'blue goat', whether to your face or when they think you're not listening?"

"Those were just idle name-calling," Leshara stated. "Nothing serious, right?"

"Maybe," Ivandyr added. "But the truth is that the people of the Alliance are just as capable of falling to the depths of depravity as that deserter."

"What do you mean?" Leshara asked.

Ivandyr sighed. "In the past eight years, I've learned much about our history upon joining the King's Army. And more than that, I've been around and I've seen the world: though my knowledge pales in comparison to yours, when it comes to the places you've been. Nonetheless, what I've seen and heard proves that the peoples of the Alliance are fully capable of committing as many atrocities as the Horde.

"It was a human wizard, Medivh the Last Guardian, who opened the Dark Portal in the Black Morass, which brought the Orcish Horde to our world. It was a human nobleman, the petty king Aiden Perenolde, who betrayed humanity to the Horde for the safety of himself and his own kingdom. The Council of Six of Dalaran, many of them humans, created the internment camps to house the defeated Orcs for study rather than putting them out of their misery."

"That sounds like an overly extreme alternative to me," Zippy interjected.

"If the Horde had been dealt with then," Ivandyr responded. "We wouldn't be dealing with them now. The Cult of the Damned was founded by a human, formerly of the Council of Six itself! Even Arthas, the brave and noble paladin and prince of Lordaeron, fell into darkness and became the first of the Lich King's death knights: now, it is said, he waits for us in the far north, at the top of Icecrown Glacier."

All eyes somberly turned northeastward. Beyond the floating citadel of Naxxanar they could see nothing but dull gray clouds. There were always clouds hanging over the ultimate north, upon the tops of the mountains. That way lay the Icecrown Glacier, where it was said the Lich King, the dark lord of the dead, sat upon a throne of enchanted ice, sending out his malignant will through the legions of undead. To think that this great monster was once a human being: and not just any human being, but a brave and noble paladin, a paragon among paragons.

"Even in the face of this, the kingdoms of the Alliance had no care for anyone but themselves. Gilneas walled itself off from the rest of the world, while the High Elves of Quel'thalas all but left us to our own devises: our friends forsook us, and all bonds of fellowship were broken. There was no help from Stormwind, Silvermoon, or Ironforge, when the legions of undead came down upon Lordaeron and ravaged that kingdom! But even after we were broken, we never learned. A Kul'Tiran war hero led a war of vengeance against the Horde on Kalimdor, which brought only death to the people of Theramore, while in Lordaeron, the survivors rallied around any banner they could, whether the fanatical Scarlet Crusade or a fool like Othmar Garithos."

"Ugh!" Zippy groaned.

"I have never heard of this Othmar Garithos before," Leshara stated. "Who exactly was he?"

"A fool," Zippy stated.

"A tool," Ivandyr said at the same time. "He was a lord of small rank, somewhere in the Eastweald, I believe, and became leader of the largest armed force of living in Lordaeron: before the Scarlet Crusade, that was. From what I hear, his goal was to drive out the undead and re-establish the Kingdom of Lordaeron, but he went about it all wrong! You say you never heard about him? For that, I am grateful, because if you had, perhaps your people would never have joined the Alliance. Othmar Garithos hated and mistreated all non-humans: in fact, many hold him responsible for the Elves leaving the Alliance."

"Why did he hate non-humans?" Leshara asked.

"I've heard that his family lived on the borders of Quel'thalas," Zippy stated. "And that when the Horde came during the Second War, they got slaughtered and Garithos blamed the Elves for not defending them."

"I've heard another story," Ivandyr said. "That he saw the dissolution of the Alliance as the fault of the Elves and Dwarves, whom he viewed as fair-weather friends. This was only strengthened by their disinterest in Lordaeron's fate during the Third War."

"I...don't know how much I agree with that one," Zippy replied. "It almost sounds like you _sympathize_ with him!"

"Sympathy? For a villain like Garithos?" Ivandyr asked. "I don't sympathize with him. But the story about his family and the Elves is no better either: I've heard that he hated Dwarves as well, so how does that hatred fit into the story with the Elves?"

"Well, don't look at me!" Zippy retorted. "I didn't come up with the story, whether it holds water or not. I'm just telling you what I've heard."

"Whatever his reasons were," Ivandyr said, turning to Leshara. "The fact remains that we humans are not always paragons of virtue."

"And you think we Draenei are?" Leshara asked. "We're only small in number, those who answered the call of the Prophet. The rest of our people could not, or would not, see the danger of the gift of the Fallen One." She dared not speak the name of one who formed the Burning Legion from the endless hordes of chaotic demons long ago: he was believed to have departed this world after the War of the Ancients and that was, for the present, enough for them.

"But there is something about you _vrachei_ that intrigues us," Leshara said. "You live such brief lives: even the _mikrei_ here will outlast you."

"Thanks...I think," Zippy said.

"Yet despite your short time on this world," Leshara continued. "The _vrachei_ leave a lasting impression upon her peoples. What you have told me is grave news indeed. Yet I don't believe that it will color my perception of your race. You fight with honor; true honor, not the inconstant beliefs of the Orcs. Your people are open to the call of the Light..." She sighed. "...and such enlightenment cannot be dismissed out of hand. I have fought with other _vrachei_ before, at the Black Temple and again at Quel'Danas. I have seen glimpses of the honor and valor of your race...and I want to know more about them."

"Well, then," Ivandyr replied. "You'll have plenty of time to see what we're like in this campaign."

"Indubitably," Zippy nodded.

"The King has returned to Stormwind," Ivandyr stated. "And what's more, there's news that something happened in the east."

"What happened?" asked Leshara.

"The Lich King has suffered his first major loss," Ivandyr replied. "A friend of mine in the Argent Dawn told me about an incident that happened in the Plaguelands. If you're interested, I could fill you in."

* * *

 **(AN: I don't really have an author's note for this chapter, so I guess that's something you can write home about.)**


	6. In Darkness Beneath the Earth

**(AN: So I thought I'd throw a little bit of work into this fic, for all zero of you who are reading it. I know it's been a while [general disinterest in everything: you know, that old chestnut], but I am still here.)**

* * *

 **In Darkness Beneath the Earth**

Six days had passed in the Howling Fjord since Andaril Forestsong had encountered the Horde convoy in the middle of the night. And those six days hadn't been easy ones in the least. His ward, the assassin Florenica, refused to reveal anything she had seen. Even after six days and nights of sleeping in the cold, under the night sky, with only Faewing for company, her stubbornness was not abated. Despite this, the Night Elf continued to be cordial to her, providing her with food and warm blankets to stave off the cold and hunger of the Northrend nights.

For himself, he had his hands full with uncovering the Forsaken plot at Ember Clutch as well as this stubborn young human. Since she was reluctant to reveal what she had seen, he went by night and discovered what he could, though he couldn't speak a word of their gutter-speak. By and by, he learned that the place which he had thought was New Agamand was in fact Halgrind, the vrykul village that had been turned into a field testing site for the Forsaken. Rather than wait for the human's stubbornness to break, he would find an alternative means of learning the truth about what was going on. But the only other option he guessed was that he would have to capture a live Forsaken and force them to talk. This caused a problem, as the Forsaken would only speak gutter-talk to him, which he did not know, and he couldn't understand it. Of course, he might be able to force Florenica into translating for him in this situation, but he was against the use of force on an ally if it could otherwise be prevented.

The sixth day was coming to a close. Andaril was lurking just outside of the little camp, in bear form, listening as Faewing fluttered about the lying form of Florenica, as she tried to sleep. The Night Elf chuckled: faerie dragons could be quite intense at times, and he had been planning on that in order to break through the human's stubbornness. With a pop and a glissando of sparkling energy, the little sprite would dart here and there, fluttering above Florenica's head, chattering away very quickly. If the human tried to swat her off, Faewing would vanish and reappear in another place, always close at hand, and within earshot.

Florenica let out a frustrated roar and threw a knife in a random direction where she had heard the sprite appear. The blade whirled through the air, heading towards Andaril, who immediately commanded a root to grow out of the ground and entangle the knife before it struck him. He shifted back into his Elven form, then removed the knife from the roots, before walking to the form of Florenica trying to sleep on the ground.

"Do you think this is funny?" Florenica asked, turning towards the approaching Night Elf. "Tormenting me with your little pet bug!"

"Faewing not bug, squishy!" the little faerie dragon said in a cheerful voice. "Faewing is friend, squishy."

"Don't call me that!" Florenica exclaimed exasperatedly, swatting the air above her head. Faewing vanished in a pop and shimmering glissando, and appeared just out of reach.

"I take no pleasure in the torment of living things," Andaril said. "You may not know this, but Night Elves are most active during the twilight hours. So I sent my companion to aid you while I was busy."

"I don't need protection," Florenica protested.

"Those vrykul tell another story," the Elf stated.

Florenica groaned in frustration. "You're so damn infuriating!"

"Things needn't be this way, you know," said Andaril. "You're only making things difficult for yourself."

"How?" she retorted.

"By stubbornly refusing to tell me what you heard among the Forsaken," said Andaril. "It has been six days and who knows what further mischief they might be doing, which could be stopped were you not so insolent!"

"Not my problem," Florenica shrugged.

"The Forsaken are the problem of everyone who lives, no less than the Scourge," Andaril noted. "And this in particular will become _your_ problem very swiftly if you continue to fight me."

"How?" Florenica repeated.

"You have a choice now before you," Andaril returned. "You can choose to be cooperative, and we'll learn what the Forsaken are up to the easy way. Or you can continue on this obstinate course of action. But I must warn you: you cannot remain silent forever. For if you continue in stubborn refusal, then I must capture one of the Forsaken and bring them back to Westguard Keep for questioning. Then Captain Adams will force you to translate, and he is not as agreeable as I am."

"You're a cruel man," Florenica sneered. "Or...elf."

"Nature is beyond the minds of humans," Andaril said. "The wilds bring life and growth, but also savagery that many would call madness and cruelty. Yet it is all done for the sake of maintaining balance in nature; and the Forsaken are a blight, an enemy of all living things, even as the Scourge." The Elf's silver eyes looked at Florenica's blue eyes.

"Do you think you can outrun the shadow of death?" he asked. "If the Lich King is not stopped, he will snuff out all life on Azeroth, adding all that once lived to his endless hordes of undead. The siege of Silvermoon saw him use his mindless servants to fill the bay between the city and the Isle of Quel'danas in order to destroy the Sunwell. The tuskarr say that he commands the snow and ice: do you truly believe the ocean will stop the undead, even though they came from Lordaeron to Kalimdor easily enough?"

Florenica frowned, and crossed her arms defiantly, but made no answer. Andaril's silver eyes pierced through all of her pretenses, and she wondered just what kind of powers this elf had: for as he spoke, Florenica's heart quavered. For he spoke in response to the thoughts of her own heart as though he had read them clearly.

At last she sighed. "When I went there, I learned that they were testing some plague or another. I don't know what it was all about."

"They're doing some great evil in that place," Andaril stated. "We must inform the others at the fort." He then turned into a bear and took a knee before her. "Climb aboard."

"What?" she asked.

"We're going back at once," Andaril said. "You will have a place to sleep for the night, away from the cold and with a roof over your head. I'm sure you wouldn't turn your nose up at that."

Florenica chuckled mirthlessly. Her body was sore from sleeping on the hard, frozen ground; and the cold northern wind bit through even the thickest blankets that Andaril had brought her. Without another word, she climbed atop the mighty back of the great bear and clung to his fur as Andaril took off at a healthy run.

* * *

On the western coast of the Howling Fjord, a massive turtle was making its way into the Kamagua harbor. The back of the turtle had a massive platform made out of wood and nets, upon which the crew and passenger rode. Though it was night and the darkness was deep, the tuskarr that piloted the turtle had lamps perched atop the turtle's back and were therefore able to navigate the icy waters of the Frozen Sea, by day or by night. As for the passengers, there was a small number of various races, both from the Horde and the Alliance. These had important business in Valgarde, Westguard Keep, Vengeance Landing, and New Agamand, and caught the turtle from Moak'ai. The southern coast of Northrend was long and such a journey took a full day and a half, and was the quickest way to get across the continent without attracting too much attention.

The journey itself had been an arduous one. While the turtle's motion was smooth enough to not be disturbed by the crashing waves, there were many other things to make the journey by sea on turtle-back difficult for the passengers. The tuskarr rank of fish and clams, a persistent odor that most people considered detestable; and this odor was on their huts, their igloos, the snow-shoes they would lend to those who had business deeper inland, where the snows prevailed, and upon their turtles as well. Apart from the smell, the sturdy wooden platform was not very comfortable, and many were gripped by the fear that they might tumble over the side and be lost to the freezing ocean waters below, which prevented them from sleeping. There was also the matter of the wind: the cold northern winds here at the Roof of the World were as sharp as the razor-winds of Durotar, and the chill thereof seemed determined to get through every bit of warm clothing anyone could wear. The very land itself was fighting the expeditions of the Alliance and the Horde even before they had engaged the Scourge proper.

There was also another issue at stake here, one that made the journey especially dangerous: the company. While the tuskarr were peaceful and, despite their smell, on good relations with both factions, there were the other passengers to worry about. A flight by wyvern or gryphon from Warsong Hold in the west to New Agamand in the east, or likewise Valgarde to Valiance Keep, might take only ten to twelve hours, but there was the matter of securing a mount from the flight master, logging in the rental and departure, and all of that being recorded. The clandestine trip, one that would have to be off the books, would have to be the slower turtle route. But since the tuskarr were friendly to both the Horde and the Alliance, and allowed both factions the use of their giant turtle ferry between Unu'pe, Moak'i, and Kamagua, the secret business of both factions was practically on display for each other. Therefore, those who went this way spoke the Common Tongue to none but the tuskarr, and no business was discussed at all, even among allies, out of fear that someone might be listening. This also made sleeping difficult, as both the Alliance and the Horde feared that the other would try to take advantage of the tuskarr's good faith and stab the other in the back while they slept.

Two figures sat in a corner of the platform by themselves, one of them wrapped in a black cloak with a hood pulled down over their head, while the other was dressed in the robe and tunic of the Royal Apothecary Society. The orders of their superior officers had brought them together, these two who could not be more different from one another. In fact, there were only three things that these had in common with each other: the first was that they were Forsaken, which could be discerned in part by their smell. The second similarity, which helped to mask the acrid sickly-sweet stench of decay upon them, was that they were both alchemists. While the one in the robes was a member of the Royal Apothecary Society as well as the Hand of Vengeance, the other used their skills in alchemy to brew newer and more potent poisons for use in assassination.

The last similarity between the two was that they were both on the Dark Lady's business. Only the biding of the Banshee Queen could have brought two such opposite characters together. Talen, the scrawny priest and alchemist, was very vocal about his disdain for other races and let any who met him know just that: for his part, he chose tormenting the living as the meaning and purpose of his undeath. The assassin, the elusive Mardenholde, hated all others, just as Talen did; but unlike him, she hated her fellow Forsaken as well, and actively shunned the company of others. No greater punishment did she see than being forced to work with people, whom she saw as only food for herself. Pairing her with Talen could not have been more torturous for her; aside from his outgoing nature, his bottom jaw had fallen off long ago, and the replacement he wore held a permanent mocking grin, which only made Mardenholde hate him all the more.

"I like these tuskarr," Talen commented, as they were pulling into Kamagua. "They're dim-witted, fat, and gullible. Our sham-chief should really bring them into the Horde: they would make excellent fodder. I wonder what they taste like." He turned to Mardenholde, who rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me that never entered your mind."

"Shut up," Mardenholde scowled. "I'm only working with you because I have to."

"Oh, don't be so serious," Talen chided. "It's all in good fun. What else is left for us Forsaken to enjoy in this miserable world that's spurned us?"

"I don't know, how about fighting back?" Mardenholde asked. She then chuckled mirthlessly.

"Was that a titter I just heard?" Talen asked. "By the Nameless Void, you _can_ still laugh!"

"I think it's funny," Mardenholde returned. "That I'm a woman and I'm actually doing something, while you're a man and all you do is play with words."

"Words will do just fine," Talen stated. "For now, that is. Besides, action is for big, dumb brutes like Orcs and cow-men."

"Wake up, friends!" the gruff voice of the tuskarr guide spoke from the front of the turtle. "We've reached Kamagua!"

"And tuskarr," Talen added as an aside. Mardenholde rolled her eyes.

The assassin and the priest made their way out of the fishing village of Kamagua and began the march northward, to the little camp on the cliffs where the Royal Apothecary's secondary field camp was located. As they approached the camp, they noticed two Blood Elven women among the group of Forsaken: they were indeed a strange sight. Talen made no visual response to these two, as his iron jaw prevented half of any facial articulation. Mardenholde, on the other hand, eyed the Blood Elves with contempt and ravenous hunger. Contempt for the living, of course: the Forsaken hated the world of the living and all within it, for they took no joy in things that lived and grew and had life, being no longer part of it themselves.

And hunger for the flesh of the living. Like the disease that spawned them, the Undead Scourge, the Forsaken could not merely exist on their own, having no life within them. They required life in order to keep on existing, and so they devoured the flesh of the living to sustain themselves. For this and other reasons, they were not loved or respected by their allies among the Horde. The trolls only vaguely approved of their cannibalistic behavior, while the Orcs, Tauren, and especially the Blood Elves - who suffered the Scourge during the Third War - hated them for this practice. Yet even among the Forsaken, Mardenholde's savagery was known and feared: from the soldiers of the Scarlet Crusade to infants of both the Horde and the Alliance, there was no one held too sacred to be devoured. The stench of rotting flesh clung heavily to her, and grew more intense whenever she opened her mouth to speak.

Few there were who could endure the stench of decay that clung to the Forsaken naturally, and much less so those who were cannibals. Only fellow Forsaken didn't seem to mind the stench. As for Talen, while he didn't have much in the way of a proper mouth and so could not imbibe in 'long pork', as it was known in some areas, he had plenty of other things to complain about. As Kamagua vanished behind them, Mardenholde eyed the shadows of the night: constantly aware of her surroundings, expecting ambush at any time. Talen, meanwhile, made sneaking to the Apothecary camp much more difficult by his constant blabbering.

"You know," he stated. "I don't hold for places that are full of life, but I must say that I hate this place somewhat less than the Borean Tundra. It's so dull over there! Nothing but barren wastes and emptiness. No wonder they called it the 'boring tundra.'"

"It means 'northern', you idiot!" Mardenholde growled beneath clenched teeth.

"Come, now," Talen returned. "You know that was a good one, don't you?"

"I don't make jokes," Mardenholde hissed. "I do the Dark Lady's bidding, and right now, she wants this plague ready for use in the field two years ago! What have you empty-headed mongrels been doing in Undercity all this time?!"

"It's not our fault!" Talen replied. "We've been working in secret, if you recall. And keeping a lid on our activities takes time."

"You apothecaries are clever enough," Mardenholde returned. "Can't you outsource some of the less important tasks to dumb brutes who don't ask questions?"

"We've already done that," Talen stated. "I had to let that shammy go; he started asking questions. Same as Um-back-uh, or whatever his stupid troll name is; they all sound alike to me."

"How much do they know?" Mardenholde asked.

"Not nearly enough to know what we're truly planning," Talen replied.

"It better be," the assassin hissed. "If the leaders of the Horde catch wind of the Dark Lady's plans, we will all be in danger."

"Oh, come now," drawled the apothecary. "Thrall is a stupid shammy himself: so gullible, so trusting, so dumb. He'd believe anything the Dark Lady tells him. And even if he didn't, he's too busy making pacts with the Alliance to tear the Horde apart."

"You seem to know a bit about the leaders of the Horde for an apothecary."

"My masters whisper things to me in the darkness, when I lie in my coffin."

Mardenholde chuckled. "I can't believe you actually sleep in a coffin."

"Why not? It brings me closer to the Old Ones." With that, he paused for a moment, his yellow eyes gazing out into the darkness. "They're here, you know. Older than the mountains. They whisper to us in the night, heralding the coming of the Nameless Void that will devour us all." Suddenly he got in Mardenholde's face and shouted; "Boo!" To which she seized his head by its lanky, greasy hair, and held a knife to his throat.

"Imsorrydontkillme, Imsorrydontkillme, Imsorrydontkillme..." he begged in one hasty breath.

"Pathetic," Mardenholde sneered. She gave him a shove into the dirt and then they carried on into the night.

In order to pass from Kamagua to the apothecary camp, they would have to take a boat through the bay under the cliffs just beneath Westguard Keep. Mardenholde knew of a footpath that wound its way up the sides of the cliffs. They rowed along the bay in silence, keeping the boat's hull only a foot from scraping against the gravely shore. The moons were hid and so the ocean was at peace: but it was an eerie, deathly peace. Mardenholde rowed the boat in the rear, scowling if ever Talen turned his perpetually grinning face toward her. This was not to her liking at all: in her day, men offered to help a lady with the difficult tasks.

At least that was the way things had been in life. In death, both the instinct to preserve one's honor and the joy of motherhood were gone forever: there was nothing to protect, nothing to violate, and no ability to bear life. For these reasons, among others, she cared little for chivalry (or the lack thereof). She only thought of expedience. While Talen was thin and shrimply for a man, even an undead man, the two of them could approximate enough power between them to get the boat to their destination in short order: his refusal made no sense in her mind, and she saw him only as an idiot.

But even idiots had their uses.

Hours passed as they rowed on. They arrived at the mouth of a great canyon, from which came the sound of running water. Yet there was nothing soothing about that water, no calming effect about it. Instead, the water seemed to be a loud, awful hiss, a wall of white noise against the backdrop of the twilight tundra. The sound set Mardenholde's teeth on edge, evoking grim memories that made her even more sour and sullen than usual. But what memories they were, she would not confide.

As for Talen, the usually talkative priest became deathly silent. His yellow eyes peered this way and that into the darkness, and his artificial smile made the macabre sensation here at the mouth of the bay all the worse. From his lips came slow, almost hypnotic words.

"They're here," he said. "I felt their presence as soon as we came to the mouth of this canyon." He made a soft hissing noise. "You can hear them in the darkness, whispering their will to us."

Mardenholde was about to roll her eyes at these words, but then she heard something whispering from the darkness. A voice, soft as silk, uttering words at the very edge of hearing. But despite the softness, there was a harshness to that voice, a menace that set Mardenholde's bones on edge and sent a shiver across her rotting flesh. Though the voice was indeed soft, there was nothing comforting or soothing about its tone. It was icy as the frozen north, implacable as death: it knew only the cold and the dark, the utter solitude of the fathomless ocean, and the eternal embrace of the nameless void.

 _There is no escape...not in this life...not in the next..._

Into Mardenholde's mind there came unbidden dark images like a flood. A handsome man on his bed, dying of a slow, corrupting plague that could not be healed. A nightmarish existence: unable to breathe, unable to die, unable to think or act of one's own volition, only to serve and obey as a mindless slave. A pale figure kneeling against the broken walls of Silvermoon, lost and alone, utterly incapable of returning to the life it once had or even of finding an end to the meaningless existence it had now.

"No..." Mardenholde breathed. "No! No, it can't be."

"Yes!" Talen mocked, his voice full of excitement. "Yes, you hear the words also? It's amazing, isn't it?"

The assassin hissed at the priest. For a moment, her right hand reached from the oar out to snatch Talen by the throat. The whispers faded and the memories vanished with it. Now there was only night: only the cold and the dark, only the very world that voice came from. Into the assassin's mind came the realization that she was entered upon a world far beyond that of her own understanding. There had been creatures of enormous size, creatures straight out of the fairy tales an old friend would spin for her in her time of living; but not since her death and return had she been exposed to something so incomprehensibly vast beyond her wildest imaginations.

"Dark Lady watch over us," she silently prayed to herself. While Mardenholde was not religious in the traditional sense - no longer a follower of the Church of the Light, holding the beliefs of the Tauren and Orcs as 'fire-worshiping superstitions', nor a zealot of darkness like Talen - the Forsaken, like the Scourge they had come from, were programmed to serve. Without the Lich King as their god and master, the Banshee Queen made an adequate substitute for their devotion, adoration, and total obedience.

* * *

On the other side of the continent, one of the officers of the Alliance Expedition went through the camp and woke several of the soldiers up from their sleep. Hushed orders were given to them to come quietly to the docks with their gear and weapons. Of those who went were Ivandyr Smythe, Leshara, and the young man from the previous day: a lad by the name of Baurice Appleton. These along with several others were being brought to the docks, which were under quite a bit of activity. A ship out of Menethil Harbor was sitting in the bay while the Stormbreaker, one of the first ships to arrive in the north, was being surrounded by men in armor. The company was rushed aboard almost immediately and taken below decks. Once they reached the bottom, the captain turned and addressed the three of them.

"Our reinforcements from the mainland were arriving this evening when we noticed this here in the hold," he said, gesturing to a place behind a stack of wooden crates and barrels. The captain led them over to the other side, where they saw three small altars coated in a gray dust: upon these dusty altars were many candles made of human fat, some of them resting on the tops of skulls that were also arranged about the altars.

"This is an altar of darkness," Baurice said. "The Cult of the Damned use these in their rituals."

"Tch," Ivandyr scoffed. "Of course he'd know all about cults." Baurice turned a venomous glance back at the older man.

"He's right," the captain said. "Somehow, cultists are here in the camp. That's why I'm calling you three out here privately. We need to find these cultists and remove them."

"Why privately?" Leshara asked.

"Morale isn't very high in the camp," the captain replied. "It wouldn't do to start a public witch-hunt and break the confidence of the troops. The other captains have each chosen men from their units for the search: you three will go among the troops and try to sound out anyone who might be a cultist. Report back to me before taking any action. We don't want to risk making a mistake and looking bad before our soldiers."

Just then, heavy footsteps were heard behind them. A sickly sweet smell came rushing down from the stairs. A large figure in black armor came walking down the stairs and stood behind the company. A gravely, unearthly voice spoke to them, thick with the accent of Gilneas. All of them turned about to the newcomer.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance, captain?"

"Monster!" Baurice shouted. Ivandyr and Leshara held the young man back as he almost threw himself at the black-clad figure.

"Hold, soldier!" the captain ordered. "This man is with us."

"Man?" Baurice retorted. "This isn't a man, he's a death knight!" He turned to the man, his voice full of anger. "Were you there at New Avalon? How many Crusaders did you kill? Was my brother among them?!"

"I've killed many men," the death knight returned, a soft, detached note in his voice. Baurice tried to reach him again, but his companions held him back.

"Men, this is Ivander Dreadmoure, one of the Knights of the Ebon Blade," the captain said. He then turned to the death knight. "We weren't expecting you in Valiance Keep so soon."

"The winds were with us," Dreadmoure replied.

"Where is Thassarian?" the captain asked.

"Still onboard the ship," Dreadmoure answered. "He's growing impatient about the delay."

"Tell him we'll have to straighten this out before you can land," the captain replied.

"That's why I'm here," Dreadmoure repeated. "Those damned cultists won't long hide from me."

"Very well," the captain said. "My men will be happy to assist you in your search."

"I'm not working with this monster!" Baurice venomously snapped.

"I work alone," the death knight added.

"Silence, boy!" the captain retorted. "You're under my command, you'll do as I say." He turned back to the death knight. "If you want to expedite your knights landing, finding and exterminating those cultists is your top priority. You'll have more luck going at it with my men than alone. Now then, since you're up, start looking around the ship for any clues for our cultist friends." The captain called his men for a salute, which they gave him, then he departed and left them to search the ship.

* * *

 **(AN: Well, this chapter certainly went everywhere. It was all I could do to merely get back into the habit of writing, so please pardon the uneven nature of this chapter. I promise the next one will be more concise.)**


End file.
